Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand
by orchidvines
Summary: Lizzy is feisty and spirited. Darcy, not so much.
1. I Like My Coffee Bitter

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter One – _I Like My Coffee Bitter_)

Somehow, I always knew that I'd be that girl straight out of high school to land a job as a barista for Starbucks. The Starbucks at Barnes and Noble's on Oxford Street? We were destined for each other since my early years.

You know that seven year old girl who _pretends_ to inspect Dr. Suess while silently lurking towards the café like some freckled creeper? Totally me. I had the callings of a caffeine and literature junkie even as a first-grader – Go figure. The years have added a few changes – the popping out of a couple more siblings, more demanding responsibilities and puberty ("Hey, boobs") – but there's probably some scattered pieces of that seven year old hidden. Scary thought. It's where my temper comes from.

"What are you pouring over _now_, Lizzy?" Charlotte Lucas rolled her gray eyes, snapping a lid over a Café Americano, "I thought the whole scribbling-papers-under-the-counter business was reserved for when you were doing your college applications."

"Because I'm so responsible like that, right?" I grinned at her, smoothing a freshly opened letter against my apron. "Actually, I did some quality studying here too – AP Biology, cell organelles. George even helped me."

"Yes well, his freakish affinity for medical terminology comes from _House_ episodes, so beware," Charlotte murmured under her breath, approaching the counter to take a customer's order, "Decaf Tall Cappuccino, ma'am -- $2.95. Lizzy?"

"On it," I mumbled, stuffing my barely glimpsed at letter under one of the blenders. I pulled my visor on more securely and snatched a cup from a stack, approaching the dispensers, "Is Brenda coming in today?" I asked Charlotte, swiveling on my heel.

"She traded shifts with George, so I guess he'll be here in five minutes," Charlotte shrugged, "Don't even know why – Sundays are so _slow_."

"Yeah," I murmured, quickly sliding a cardboard collar onto the cup, "Decaf Tall Cappuccino." My face felt warm, and before I could distract myself, Charlotte donned a smirk I had seen _way_ too many times this week than could be tolerated.

"A_mazing_, isn't it?" she beamed, brushing auburn bangs from her eyes, "How whenever I mention George Wickham, that pretty pale face of yours reddens up like a tomato. Almost like sunburn."

"Bite me, Charlotte – I'm _not_ into George Wickham."

"You want him," Charlotte sighed melodramatically, "You _yearn_ for him."

It's really incredible that we've been pulling the same running gag since elementary school. Yes – Charlotte Lucas and I go way back. We've pissed ourselves in the same kiddie pools, skinned the same knees climbing in and out of trees– It helps that we grew up as neighbors in Longbourn. And she has _always_ given me crap about guys. Only back then, I would have spit gum in her hair and called it a day.

We're sweethearts.

"Okay, Charlotte," I muttered, finally retrieving my letter. I gingerly unfolded the strip of paper, and my focus shifted.

_Miss Elizabeth Bennet,_

_We greatly appreciate the trouble you took of sending us your manuscript – it is returned herewith in a separate package that will arrive in 2-3 business days. We cannot deny that you have promise as a young writer in terms of eloquence and well-developed characters. Unfortunately, this cannot serve as basis enough to make you an offer for the novel. Firstly, we bore many objections to the plot. Your protagonist's goals, while initially optimistic, seem to drag the story out. The very action of the manuscript is so integrated with miniscule details that it almost becomes _unreadable_. Your characters are interesting to a degree, I suppose. In truth, I feel they are trying too hard to be likeable and simply border on _annoying_. Their cynicism and dryness act to eventually make the reader restless and indifferent of their fates. In fact, by the fourth chapter I honestly couldn't be bothered as to whether your protagonist would be defeated or not. It failed to keep my interest. It's stale. Whatever drama or passion is displayed here quickly evaporates in favor of superfluous detail and sullen characterizations. _

_Thank you nonetheless for seeking our publishing company._

_Regards,_

_Fitzwilliam Darcy_

_Editor – Watts & Darcy Co._

The interesting thing about this letter is that it would be the first of two letters I would receive from one, Fitzwilliam "Will" Darcy within the time span of six months – Neither would be pleasant. Both would make me feel like throwing up in my mouth – for separate reasons mind you, but the feeling is never exactly one of the embraced, fuzzy kinds.

"I'm pretty sure my intestines just liquefied," I muttered, slumping against the counter, "My first rejection letter – joy of joys."

Charlotte's face fell, "Not for _Nottingham and Draperies_? Oh, _Lizzy_ –who'd you send it to?" She pried the note out of my hands and scanned it briefly, brow knitting, "Watts & _Darcy_? Oh sweetie, they're picky bastards. Don't take it personally. They're a small but extremely stiff publishing house – elite. Mariah had the same trouble."

"Fitzwilliam Darcy," I scoffed, tearing the paper back again, "What _superfluous_ details? What the _fuck_ is he talking about? – I've been through so many butchering edits it could make my head spin on an axis."

"Fuck him, have a latte!" Charlotte grinned, leaping towards the stock, "Pumpkin spice? Peppermint _mocha_? Green tea frapp?"

"Sullen characterizations," I scoffed, "And then this short, shit-faced 'thank you'! I don't understand why he had to go out and make this letter so personal. I'm pretty sure you're not _supposed _to be this abrasive. You know what _Fitzwilliam Darcy_ can do with his 'thank you', Charlotte?"

"I have to say, you're taking this really well," she arched an eyebrow.

"Taking _what_ well?" a male voice interrupted us. George Wickham, incorrigible grin and all, dumped his messenger back promptly behind the counter and was in the process of knotting his green apron behind his back.

"Lizzy got her first rejection letter."

"_Ouch_," George winced, leaning against the counter, "Which publishing house?"

"Watts & Darcy," I slumped, crumbling the strip of paper into a ball. I launched it at the nearest wastebasket but it bounced off of the rim and continued to fester miserably by George's foot.

He raised an eyebrow and promptly reached down and unfolded it, scanning through. To my surprise, his lip curled up in bitter surprise – I couldn't really read the expression. After awhile, he shrugged, "Forget them. They're total pricks."

"Seriously, I've heard this _twice_ already," I laughed, quickly taking an order for an iced espresso, "Is this just awesome support from you two or did I completely pick the wrong publishing house to start with?"

"_Both_," Charlotte and George chimed.

"Lovely," I muttered, clamping down the lid of my order. I slid it towards the counter, just as George laid a hand on my shoulder, startling me.

"Don't take shit from others, Lizzy," he murmured, "You're a fantastic writer. It's a process – you're young. Even the greats get their stinging rejection letters."

I've heard this _so_ many times before – from my father especially -- and I've always been flippant about it. But my girliness just caused me to slump and agree with him. This did _nothing_ to stop Charlotte's massive grin from spreading.

"You need to get out of here," Charlotte whistled, "Draw yourself a bath – bitch to Jane."

"She's the ideal person to bitch to, actually," George scratched the back of his head, green eyes apologetic, "I almost feel sorry for her."

"Well, that's what she gets for being almost unbelievably sweet and good-tempered," I shrugged, removing my visor, "Not that I don't adore her – she's my life."

"Twins are like that," Charlotte grinned, "Now scoot on out and I'll shred your letter."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I really wanted to avoid falling into a modern P&P, but it was (stereotypically) my first Austen novel, and I obviously love it to bits. So far, this is just a WiP, it depends on how it does. But those who read _Ancient History_ know I'm pretty consistent. I really don't plan to make this as formulaic and common -- obviously, I want to stay fairly canon and respect Austen but to a certain degree. Oh, and the rejection letter? Um, totally modeled after one of Ursula K. Le Guin's. Oops.

Oh, and much thanks to Quiz for the correction on the Starbucks lingo -- duly noted and appreciated!


	2. Housemate for Hire and other Nuances

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Two -- _Housemate for Hire_ _and other Nuances_)

"You're _home_!" Jane sprung up the garden pathway, bare feet slapping the concrete. She was beaming and her pale blonde hair was streaming like a banner in the _wind_. I'm not kidding. My twin is legitimately a fairy princess – true story. She poops rainbows.

Jane ruffled my hair, squinting in the sunlight, "Why are you back so early? Did Charlotte get you fired? Electrocuted George's hair?"

"That would be something to capture on my camera phone," I pondered, removing my visor, "Charlotte sent me home for a mental health day."

"Are we _deranged_?"

"Collectively? I don't think so. Singularly, it's a strong possibility," I grinned, linking arms with her as she led me up to the porch. Jane cast a decisive look, waiting good-naturedly for me to go on. There's no evading my sister, truly. Her golden attitude and aptitude for listening physically _reach inside your soul_ to yank the truth out of you. And her pursed lips and narrowed, patient eyes just screamed Mother Hen. It's depressing – I crumbled.

"I got my first rejection letter from Watts & Darcy Co.," I spluttered, crossing my arms over my chest quickly, "_Yes_, I feel like punching infants. _Yes_, I'm incredibly discouraged. And _yes_, I _do_ want to hunt this editor down and wring every ounce of life out of his flailing, decomposing body."

"Interesting," Jane blinked twice, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly, "Was that so difficult?"

"The pressure got to me," I mumbled, wiping the sweat off my brow. Gingerly, Jane pulled me down to the first step of the porch, and I held my knees to my chest. Down the curve of the driveway, I watched a middle-aged man push a polka dot twin stroller down the expanse of the sidewalk.

"If they slap you with murder charges Lizzy, I'll be a very lonely twin," Jane rationalized, picking a dust particle off her jeans, "Don't get me wrong, the description of this physically-wringing-life-out shtick _is_ entertaining, but the law's a bit of a hassle in this situation. Personally, I'm all for it otherwise."

"I appreciate your support."

"Don't mention it. And you _do_ know that even the best authors alive got their slew of rejection letters, right?" Jane took my hand, eyes like my father's and fiercely bright, "And that this shouldn't discourage you?"

"And yet it _does_," I scowled, turning away, "It was vicious, Jane, almost like a personal attack."

"I doubt that, Lizzy," Jane smiled patiently, "It's a wonderful creation of yours so of course it's natural to take offense when somebody disagrees with it."

"_Disagree_? Janey," I snorted, "I'll give you Spark Note's version."

"Humor me," she grinned, tucking a strand of my hair behind an ear.

I cleared my throat regally, "_Miss Bennet_ -- _You _suck_. Your _characters_ suck. This is a festering, steaming pile of _shit_. You can go leap off a cliff, but be sure to take your manuscript from Hades with you._"

"There's obviously _no_ possibility of you exaggerating of course," Jane drawled, eyebrow arched. At my firm denial, she sighed wearily and yanked me up by the wrist, pulling me to the door, "Oh _Lizzy_."

"Oh _Jane_," I grinned, passively submitting to being forced inside. I'm Jane's baby sister in the truest sense of the word. There is no age gap (save for twenty three minutes between births where my mother questioned what power had possessed her to _not_ take that epidural). But it's no secret that Jane Bennet mommies me through all the muck life can possibly afford.

Dragged inside, I was comforted by the lemon fresh scent of a newly scrubbed, one story home. This afterthought of a flat is Jane's baby – she keeps after it like a goose to her goslings. It _used_ to be my uncle and aunt's first home when they were first establishing their business – they had never sold it, and were renting it out to us for the past three months for an absurdly reasonable price. It was fitting really, for real estate tycoons to have their collection of rented homes dotting the county. And it's twenty five minutes from the university we'd both be attending that autumn.

My mother _hates_ it – it's too tiny for her taste. Then again, _anything_ is too tiny in her mind's eye that can't accommodate five squawking girls, a passive husband and her own hysterical self.

I dumped my bags in the foyer and unlaced my Chucks, following Jane obediently into the kitchen. I knew what was in store. She would brew a heavenly pot of peppermint tea, we would sit at our sheet of wood (_see_ dictionary: kitchen table) and I would _bitch_ – incredibly. George and Charlotte have my sister pegged to a tee.

I'm not saying my twin is one-dimensional, just ex_tremely _predictable. We love her for it. She's pure sunlight, and I wouldn't change a thing. My three younger siblings can't be credited with such a title, regrettably, but you accept people for who they are. And if you can't, there's always duct tape.

"By the way," Jane addressed me, shoving the kettle under a running faucet, "I hope you don't mind, but I'm having a prospective housemate tour this evening. Three candidates have called."

"_Housemate_?" I repeated, temporarily disappearing next door into our open bedroom. The walls were so thin that conversation was easily managed, so I rifled through my drawers until I could find my sweats.

"_Well_," Jane called, and I heard the clank of the kettle on the ancient stove, "With tuition and the dent that buying textbooks created in our wallets, I think it'd be a good idea to have a third roommate to split the cost with. We do have two bedrooms."

"Jane," I laughed, poking my head out from the doorway, "The second bedroom's a dis_aster_. We have a dozen packed boxes and a crappy paint job."

"_One_," Jane grinned, raking her hair into a ponytail, "I take it you haven't been in that room for two weeks or longer. I repainted it nine days ago. Did you _not_ notice the Lowe's bags and the obvious paint fumes?"

"I'm really flaky and unobservant – was I at work?"

"You might have been," she paused, "I also loaded the boxes into the crawl space."

"We have a _crawl space_?"

"_Yes_," Jane sighed, exasperated, "And _two_, why are you in your underwear?"

"I'm changing into my sweatpants," I said plainly, "Unless you have no objection to me moonwalking in the kitchen stripped down to my skivvies."

Jane narrowed her blue-gray eyes pointedly, "That will be the first thing to go once we get a third roommate – there will be _no_ Michael Jackson moves in _skivvies_."

"You're amused by my wondrous moves; admit it," I teased her, entering the kitchen now having reversed my _sans pants _situation. Jane rolled her eyes and smirked, digging out two mugs from the nearest cupboard. I leaned my elbows against the counter, trailing a finger against our small fish bowl. Two ordinary goldfish circled their own aquatic prison, and I made sympathetic faces at them – for moral support, of course.

"Don't scare the fish, Lizzy," Jane cautioned, placing my mug on a wooden coaster before me.

"Ben Affleck looks so _sad_ today," I pouted, tapping the glass gingerly as the lighter of the two fish swam by.

"I thought that one's Matt Damon?" Jane asked quizzically, leaning back to cradle her mug to her chest.

"No, that's the darker one – he's a brooder," I followed Affleck with a fingertip, "Damon's the suicidal one, remember? He keeps trying to leap out."

Jane snorted in response.

"I hope this roommate isn't a bitch," I murmured, resting my chin in my palm, "I'll flip shit if you let Cruella de Vil claim that bedroom."

"Where she'll design Dalmatian curtains and such," Jane grinned, dipping a finger into her tea haphazardly.

"Naturally," I shrugged, taking a sip.

But sure enough, we did show the three candidates in that evening. Jane had made such a beautiful show of it too. For our squashed living quarters in all their cramped glory, there was a very _zen_ vibe to the townhouse. Candles were lit at the end table by the front door. Homemade cookies were quickly baked so that the welcoming scent might diffuse through the air. And the lighting was _just_ right so that one might be distracted from how absolutely _tiny_ it all was and concentrate on the design. Boy, was Jane artsy.

We were a little drawn back from the first girl – mostly because of the spike through her chin. Not that we're overtly judgmental, of course, but spikes are hazardous during power outages, you know. Lightning storm and _bam_ – you have a weapon of mass destruction fumbling for her bearings in the next room.

Plus, she heavily hinted at overt promiscuity. And as students, Jane and I needed as many hours of sleep we could garner without panting and squicky love declarations ravaging our walls through the adjacent room.

The second candidate never showed – call it a changed mind or lack of interest.

The third candidate was received at nine-thirty in the evening, three hours later than she had called us to expect. We were weary and slightly frustrated at this point. And when I unlatched the door, prepared to shoo this traipsing little time-jerker off with some carefully chosen words, it all seemed to falter.

This girl looked unbelievably shy. She was standing awkwardly, with her feet crossed and her hands wrung together nervously, cobalt eyes ri_diculously_ wide. She straightened her purse awkwardly over a shoulder and leaned her weight against one leg.

"Are you Jane?" she asked, retrieving a neon green flier from her bag.

"I'm Jane, yes," I grinned, "You must be our third contestant of the night."

"I'm _so_ sorry I'm late," she muttered, eyes downcast, "I had some car trouble."

"That's fine, as long as you're in one piece," I jutted a thumb backwards, "Come on in." I led her inside patiently, and we entered the kitchen.

"Lizzy?" Jane called, popping up from behind the counter. She yellow, elbow-length scrubbing gloves on and promptly pulled them off, clutching them behind her back.

"_Still_ cleaning?" I asked teasingly.

Jane shrugged and smiled at our newest prospect, extending a hand, "Excuse the Clorox smell – I'm Jane Bennet."

"Pleasure," the younger girl smiled, but then turned skeptically towards me, "I take it you're not Jane then?"

"Our names are interchangeable."

"_Lizzy_," Jane warned.

"Lizzy Bennet," I greeted, "Sorry for the confusion, Miss --?"

"Georgiana Darcy," she greeted, a smile spreading on her face, "Thanks for the clarification."

"No problem," I grinned, liking her already, "Let me show you the prospective bedroom." I offered her the crook of my elbow, and she humored me and accepted it as we crossed the threshold into the sparse little space.

"I realize it's not much," I apologized, scratching my head unsurely. It wasn't the grandest of rooms to be sure – there was a single bed and a dresser, as well as a mahogany wardrobe perched across. But it was quaint and clean.

"No, it's fine," Georgiana beamed, "Really."

"Are you a college freshman?" I asked, taking a seat beside her on the stripped mattress, "Because you look younger."

"I'm seventeen, if that makes any difference," she laughed, "I skipped the second grade."

"Impressive," I teased, and Georgiana smiled quietly, "So, _Georgiana_ – that's a mouthful."

"You haven't even heard my middle name," she muttered, glancing briefly at the walls.

"Any nicknames?"

"My brother calls me Georgy on occasion. I _hate_ him for it, but there's not much I can do," she grinned sheepishly, "I'm branded."

"Sounds grim," I rose to my feet, "My mother used to call me The Keebler Elf."

Georgiana raised an eyebrow in question.

I shrugged, "I was small and mischievous – I would sneak cookies from the kitchen into my siblings' bedrooms."

"_Robin Hood_?" she grinned.

"I guess you could say that," I laughed, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. She smiled back.

An hour later, we had officially found our third housemate. Mostly on the grounds that she seemed tidy, overwhelmingly polite and had already had her first month's rent tucked away delicately into a crisp white envelope. The fact that her ringtone was David Bowie did her _no_ harm either -- She would move in that Thursday.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Updates won't be this frequent; really, I just always feel the need to back up the first chapter quickly. I'm kind of inexplicably OCD about that, it's really strange! Especially because my chapters usually come once a week or once every couple of weeks. Anyway, thank you so much for the lovely response of the first chapter! I hope this continues to be enjoyable. I know Darcy's entrance is churning _very_ slowly, but don't worry. He'll show up soon enough, of course. Please review!


	3. A Little Brushing of History

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Three – _A Little Brushing of History_)

Three weeks until the semester's start and I was already knee-deep in chores. Our newest housemate's boxes had cluttered the hallways utterly, something she attributed to her brother (some sort of a guardian on her behalf) being excessively overprotective and not-so-frugal in shipping her "necessities". There were still renovations to be made and schedules to be ironed out, made even more difficult by the maze of cardboard boxes barricading the hall like a fortress.

"Holy _shit_, GDarce," I mumbled, trudging a laundry basket over the mountain of packing supplies, "Where did you live before this, Buckingham Palace?" Jane shot me a dirty look and graciously helped the younger girl unpack, foam peanut shells flying in impossible directions.

"Charlotte, North Carolina," corrected Georgiana, her long dark hair tied into a knot at the nape of her neck, "And how long until you stop calling me GDarce? It's been three days."

"But it's so catchy, isn't it?" I beamed, ruffling her hair. She pulled back, half-sneering and half-smiling. But it was a mutual agreement on both our halves. She was kind of like a surrogate sister I could tease at my will – even if this meant butchering her name in a monstrous, rapper-inspired squashing of syllables. At least until I pulled together a new nickname. My mind couldn't process Georgiana Darcy without thinking of the crown jewels. Something had to be done.

But still, timid girls need encouragement. You need to embrace them wholly so they can bloom. And Jane and I were quite pleased with ourselves. She had sufficiently opened up and embraced our Townhouse of Crazy.

"Charlotte, North Carolina," I repeated, dragging in a box of neatly folded sweaters, "Second largest financial center in the United States."

"Did you just pull that statistic out of your ass?" Jane cocked an eyebrow, discreetly reaching down her blouse to remove a peanut shell with absurd speed.

"I might have," a beat, "And I saw that."

"Well, Daddy's company is based there," Georgiana huffed, straining as she trudged a heavier box onto her mattress. It creaked nervously under the weight and she eyed the situation with apprehension before turning to us, "My brother's temporarily in charge of it now, but I'm just sick of the area. I had to get away."

"Your brother sounds _old_," I told her conversationally, unsealing one of the smaller boxes, "Between keeping track of your things and single-handedly running a company, I mean."

"He didn't have much choice after my father passed away," Georgiana said quickly, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind an ear. At this, Jane and I stopped moving for a moment, glancing back to look at her. She stopped, sensing our trepidation, "This happened a_while _ago, guys – at least two years."

"I'm sorry," Jane murmured, instantly wrapping the younger girl in a hug. Her blue eyes widened and she awkwardly reciprocated the gesture, smiling nervously.

"That's okay, really."

"So your brother just up and took over?" I asked quietly, sitting Indian style by her wardrobe.

"I guess you could call it that. He has a slew of advisors," she chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, "He should be at it for another six months or so. Will had to put his career plans on hold fresh out of college. He was going to go to law school, too, but he had to take over for Dad."

"Well, it's not too late; how old is he?" Jane asked.

"Twenty-five."

"And where's your mom?"

"Somewhere in Los Angeles with her fourth husband and a baby on the way," Georgiana replied passively, brushing dirt from the hem of her Hanes tee, "I haven't seen her since I was ten years old – Nasty divorce. Even nastier settlement."

"I see why your brother is so careful with you though," Jane responded thoughtfully, "You're practically the only family he has. Who's to say I wouldn't be as careful with my own siblings?"

"All _four_," I teased.

"I guess," Georgiana smiled gently, "He was so nervous about me moving out. It makes no sense though, because he's rarely home anyway. But I guess he just felt more assured with me in the area. Now I'm just out of Philadelphia with two perfect strangers," a pause, "Not that I don't trust you guys. I'm just not sure _he_ does."

"We're not axe murderers," I assured her.

"You should invite him into town for a couple of days," Jane smiled brightly, "He could get a taste of the city and your own living situation. We could convince him to get off your back."

"Or you could just block his number," I muttered, gingerly unloading a box. I paused after finding both my housemates' eyes steadily glued to mine, "_What_?"

"Anyway," Georgiana grinned, "His best friend's family lives in Philadelphia, so he's definitely been here before. Maybe I could convince Will to come down and visit us both. I could get a good word put in. The Bingleys are a trust-worthy family."

"As in Bingley _steel_?" Jane blinked, enforcing a shrug on Georgiana's part.

"Sounds like a plan, GDarce."

At this, our housemate sighed audibly.

"Lizzy, go feed Ben Affleck; you're bothering her with your nicknames," Jane snorted, flinging a pillow cushion at me.

Georgiana blinked in confusion, "Ben _Affleck_?"

"Fish in the kitchen," I informed her, "Our second, actually, since last month when we had to flush George Clooney down the toilet." I sighed, smoothing out a sheet of bubble wrap, "He was such a sweetheart, too."

"You guys name your goldfish after A-Listers," Georgiana stated dully, eyebrows raised. The smirk on her face did indicate that she was heavily amused though.

"No," Jane pointed out clearly, "_Lizzy_ names our goldfish after A-Listers. I just look on helplessly and don't get any say in the matter."

"That's because your names suck."

"She's brutally honest, you'll learn that after a little while," Jane assured Georgiana, shrugging her shoulders apologetically.

* * *

I know that theoretically, I should have waited to send my manuscript to a publishing house until gathering more experience. My stories _do_ have the propensity to wander aimlessly or fizzle in disappointment. But _Nottingham and Draperies_ had been a fourteen month-old assignment – a brainchild of research and endless study that had threatened to blow up into something much more than a side hobby. It was the first attempted work that I _hadn't_ wanted to throw into a vat of oil and set ablaze. And my family and friends were wonderfully supportive.

And now I was very threatened to trash it, given my most recent feedback. I guess bitter criticism has that potential. Instead, I buried it in a back folder of a filing cabinet of our bedroom. Maybe I'd feel like being less depressed about it at a more convenient moment in the future. For now, I had other things occupying my mind.

That Saturday, Georgiana had agreed to meet with her family's friend ("Bingley _steel_, Lizzy" Jane had muttered in shock) – the catch was she severely wanted us to come with.

"_I can't, I'm working on a historical charting of differences between Louis XIV and Louis XIII that day."_

"_Lizzy, the semester starts in a _week_."_

"_Damn it."_

I got George to cover my shift. And so, we accompanied our adopted housemate into downtown Philadelphia for a better portion of the day– which was fairly convenient since we got to tour Hertfordshire's campus, being in close vicinity. Until we were called to Ye Ole Bingley Manor, of course.

"It's actually a penthouse," Georgiana corrected in the cab ride, smiling crookedly, "Charlie wanted something a bit smaller than his parents'."

At which point Jane and I exchanged incredulous glances.

When we were finally buzzed up (inside a building consisting entirely of smooth glass panels and a modern, expensive silhouette), I couldn't help but sputter, "You're saying this elevator goes directly to his apartment."

"Yes."

"I want one," Jane laughed, eyeing her reflection in the marble tiles.

"In a one-story townhouse, I think it kind of defeats the purpose," Georgiana grinned, seeming in high spirits. I smiled after her as the doors opened and chimed, exposing an incredibly modern, tasteful penthouse straight from the pages of a glossy Ikea catalogue.

"Oh damn – that's you Georgy, isn't it?" called a slightly distressed, disembodied, distinctly _British_ tone – though somewhat Americanized. Jane and I poked our heads out of the elevator cautiously, eyebrows raised. And then Charles Bingley II entered the room -- a lanky, boyish looking man with a dimpled grin and an apron tied around his narrow waist that only looked minimally ridiculous. He stopped shortly once he realized that Georgiana was not alone, and turned crimson, matching the hue of his hair. The apron was duly tossed.

"I mentioned I was bringing friends," Georgiana defended herself, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

"Did you?" he asked, scratching the back of his head, "I swear I can't remember." He paused and then looked apologetic, addressing us, "Not that I'm not happy to meet you or be in your company; any friend of Georgiana's is a friend of mine."

"They're my housemates – I'm extremely lucky because they're extremely nice."

"Will should be relieved then," Charlie smiled, extending a hand, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Lizzy Bennet," I took his hand, "You're British."

"I hadn't really picked up on that," he winced, breaking into a smile, "And yes, yes I am – English, actually."

"Even though your family's company is American."

"Charlie's mother is English," Georgiana corrected, "He lived in Cambridge until he was ten. His father is an American."

"I left when I was eleven," Charlie corrected with an easy smile, nudging her with his elbow, "But thank you for the miniature biopic."

"Oh, and this is Jane, Lizzy's sister," Georgiana remembered, shoving Jane more efficiently into the circle. At which point a blush slowly but steadily crept its way up my sister's face as they exchanged hands. And if it was even possible, Charles Bingley's smile widened a fraction of an inch more.

"Would you like a tour?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** You guys are so lovely, thank you for all the feedback! Darcy's coming next chapter, so thanks for being so patient. Hertfordshire University, totally fictional of course. And yeah, my version of Charles Bingley _slightly_ plays off of the film's (2005) – in all actuality, he's beginning to look like a Weasley sibling here, but I really have no objection.

So, I've been writing a lot lately (much to my Euro grade's chagrin) and am getting pretty far ahead. Chapter four's already done, so let me know when you'd like it posted. Please review and let me know what you think so far!


	4. This Particular Happenstance

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Four -- _This Particular Happenstance_)

Charles Bingley the II was undergoing three very distinct emotions as he fumbled for sodas in his refrigerator, balancing a Blackberry between shoulder and ear. The first was vague enchantment. It might have had something to do with the really pretty, adorable blonde in the next room (he was trying to not think about this at the moment). The second was frustration as he tried to tackle two chores at once. And the third was mild irritation at his best mate's voice grumbling from the other line.

"_I'm fucking stuck in _traffic_, Charlie_," the deep voice of his best friend rattled out, "_It's incredible, the cabs actually don't move. They're frozen to the roads – in the middle of September_."

"Will, relax. _Please_," Charlie huffed, shoving the eight pack onto the countertop, "I won't let Georgy leave without seeing you. I do feel like a bit of a prat for lying to her though."

"_You were the one who suggested I come down after you found out she'd be visiting today. It's not even lying; it's more like an extremely unexpected surprise from a sibling who is never spontaneous._"

"Is that what you're going to tell her, then?" Charlie snorted, shutting the stainless steel door closed with the heel of his foot, "Not that you had a mental breakdown in the middle of your father's office, insulted your receptionist and hopped on the nearest flight to Philadelphia, oh no. You're just being _spontaneous_."

"_I'm glad we understand each other_."

"I still can't believe you insulted your receptionist," Charlie chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Becky's a sweet, timid girl; you probably made her cry."

"_She was incompetent_."

"She started working there _two_ weeks ago, Will," Charlie balked incredulously.

"_Yeah well, whatever – How's Georgy_?"

"She's fine."

A pause, and then a cautious, "_What are you not telling me?"_

Charlie sighed, switching his mobile to his other ear, "She's not exactly alone here, you see."

_"W__ho's she with then_?"

"Her housemates – but both are really great girls," Charlie beamed, "Or else they seem it."

"_Wonderful_."

"I know, sound enthused. I'll see you here in a couple of hours then, mate. Please don't harass the cab driver or spontaneously combust. I know it's difficult."

"_It _is_ difficult_," Will said.

"I still think you need therapy, by the way," Charlie advised, grinning as he peeked out of the entrance to the kitchen. Georgiana was seated in the living room between the Bennet twins, Elizabeth purposely mussing her hair and Jane good-humoredly scolding her sister. God, she had a pretty smile. He frowned and pulled back.

"_I think we've had this conversation two dozen times."_

"It doesn't mean that you_ don't_ need therapy," Charlie smirked.

Indeed they had talked about this a lot, numerous times since Will's father had passed away. The stress and unhappiness, the sheer force of responsibility and unwanted career was getting to him. At least his best friend would only have to endure it for a few more months, if all went accordingly.

But Will Darcy was eager to change the subject.

"_By the way, can you _please_ tell Carolyn to stop calling me? It's getting kind of embarrassing. I have really inappropriate voicemails on my Blackberry. I think they'd make your blood run cold_."

"Please don't share," Charlie shuddered, thinking of his older sister, "It's your fault for getting pissed drunk at the Christmas party last year and leading her on."

"_All I said was that her dress looked pretty_," Will stated, incredulous.

"If you look that up in Carolyn's dictionary, I'm quite certain it translates into 'I would so love to shag you senseless right now' – figuratively speaking."

"_I'm going to go spend the remainder of this cab ride pretending you never said that_," he paused, "_I'll see you when I see you._"

"Agreed."

* * *

Charlie finally hobbled back into the room, balancing a variety of Cokes which Jane graciously decided to help him with. He thanked her and smiled warmly, and I caught the tinge of a blush at her cheeks again. As she caught my eye, she cleared her throat and sunk onto the loveseat beside us. I would give her such shit about this on the ride home, and she knew it.

"What took you so long?" Georgiana asked, eyebrow raised in question.

But Charlie was as elusive as ever, stretching back casually, "Oh, just a phone call."

"From?" she prompted.

"A telemarketer."

"You spent fifteen minutes on the phone with a _telemarketer_?" Georgiana asked doubtfully, snapping open her Coke can. She propped her striped socked feet up upon the rim of the coffee table casually, leaning back.

"Of course," Charlie said sincerely, glancing over to Jane for a moment, "They're fantastic conversation starters. We were actually just brain storming on eco-friendly ideas for easy, environmentally safe living. He suggested that I buy a Prius."

"You have a Prius," I told him, and he glanced over, surprised, "It's parked along the rotunda for whatever reason – CBING2."

"You are unfathomably observant, Lizzy Bennet."

"That's true," Jane smiled wisely, tracing the rim of her can with an index finger.

"So this twin thing," Charlie leaned forward on his elbows, distinctly speaking to Jane, "What's it like?"

Jane glanced up, looked at me and then looked back to him with some hesitation, "Well, it's great, of course. I mean, we don't share the same brainwaves or anything, but I wouldn't be able to live without her." She paused for a second, "Do you have any siblings?"

"Two older sisters," Charlie winced, and I sensed some apprehension, "Lyssa is back in England. Carolyn lives about an hour away."

"I don't sense much affection," I grinned.

"No, that's not it," Charlie chuckled, "They're family; you have no choice _but_ to love them."

"I hear that," I muttered, and Jane nudged me quickly across Georgiana's lap, "What? No, I love you all, Jane, really. Marin's definitely in the top ballot too. But those twins at the end of spectrum," I grumbled, leaning my head back.

"What, _two_ sets of twins in your family?" Charlie asked, bewildered, "Five children?"

"She just pop, pop, popped 'em out."

"_Lizzy!_"

"Your poor parents," Charlie murmured.

"Our poor _mother_," Jane laughed quietly, pulling the sleeves of her shirt over her hands and hugging her arms to herself, "Our Dad handles things a little more rationally – usually by escaping to the den when things get too intense."

"You can't blame him though," I shrugged, "He lives with a hysterical wife, a mellowed out introvert and the most obnoxious sixteen year-old identical twins you will ever meet."

"Lizzy," Jane smiled, pulling her knees to her chest, "You make our family sound like a horror story."

"No, actually, it all sounds quite interesting," Charlie considered, "A demented Brady Bunch of sorts." He then cocked his head at Jane, and asked her if she would like to borrow a sweatshirt: "I've got a problem with the AC – If I would've known you were cold, I would've offered to fetch you a jacket or blanket or something."

"I'm fine," Jane insisted, smiling.

"You're shivering," Charlie grinned, eyebrows raised, "Please, let me." And with that, he rose and disappeared into his bedroom.

"Aw, he's so _fetching_," I smirked at Jane, raising my eyebrows.

Jane rolled her eyes and fought another blush, and I couldn't help but snort.

"Y'know," thought Georgy aloud, "I never knew you both had such a complicated family -- imagine more Bennets running around."

"It's a scary thought," I sympathized, then turned to Jane, "Say, I don't think I've seen you blush over a guy since high school."

Jane grumbled, "I did _not _blush. It's not what you think."

"It's _exactly _what I think."

"I guess you do have matching brainwaves, then?" Georgy smirked, and I grinned at her.

"When are you going to ask Charlie about your brother, Georgy?" I asked her, adjusting myself so I could sit on my heels, "That's why we're here, isn't it? To gently pry him off your back?" I grinned at Jane, who slumped in relief of the abandoned subject.

"I'll say something soon," Georgy sighed, some of her dark bangs falling into her eyes, "I've got to get on that." After a second she turned to me skeptically, brilliant blue eyes skeptical, "What, no _GDarce_?"

"Sorry?"

"You just called me Georgy."

"Oh," I grimaced, snapping my fingers, "It's all Charlie's fault – he's got the accent going for him so it sounds all lilting and smooth; _Jor-jay_."

"What did I do?" Charlie asked evasively, reentering the room with a dark grey college sweatshirt in his grasp. He handed it to Jane and she gratefully accepted it, slipping it over her head. The NYU hoodie was huge on her thin frame, but she huddled into it cozily.

"Will has the same sweatshirt," Georgy observed, "I stole it from him awhile ago. I'm a hoodie-snatcher."

"That you are," Charlie nodded.

"You went to NYU?" Jane asked.

"Graduated recently – a year early, but still," Charlie smiled.

"Wait, can I just recap really quickly? If you'll let me, that is," I paused, recieving an amused nod from Charlie, "So, apparently you and 'Will', Georgiana's brother, met in college – NYU."

"We were roommates, yes," Charlie nodded.

"And then you moved to Philadelphia to work for your father's company?" I prompted, egging him on.

"Good so far," Charlie grinned, and I saw him look at Jane from the corner of his eye.

"And then 'Will' moved to North Carolina to work for _his_ father's company," I finished, "So you all are kind of connected between three different cities."

"True enough," Georgy confirmed, "Wow, we sound so estranged."

"I like how you say 'Will' like allegedly that's his name," Charlie smirked at me, rubbing his chin, "I take it you haven't met him."

"How could I? His sister just moved into our house two weeks ago," I shrugged.

At this, he smiled and turned to face Georgiana: "Well, Georgy, I know I'm not your _brother_," Charlie shrugged, setting his can down, "But you seem really happy and well-matched – in good company, so to speak. I think it's really good for you given your previous living situation at home."

"Thanks," she nodded, "If you can do me a favor and convince _Will_ to think the same way, I'd be so grateful."

"And why do I get the feeling that our conversation has slowly been sliding towards this focal point?" Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"Because it has," Jane deadpanned, smiling. Charlie reciprocated the expression ten-fold.

Fifteen minutes later, we heard the intercom buzz, and Charlie whipped his head around, slightly startled. He turned back to us and excused himself, hopping over the sofa quickly towards the door. He leaned in towards the speaker of the intercom, pressing the silver knob, "State your purpose."

Static, and then a deep, alarmingly PO'd voice: "_Charlie, if you don't ring me up, I'll tear you limb from limb_. _Seriously_."

At this, Charlie hit the buzzer and whipped around with a full-fledged grin on his face, eager to gauge Georgiana's reaction. Her expression processed many things at once, and then her jaw dropped incredulously, "Is that? No. _No_, you can't be serious!"

"So much for telemarketers," Charlie laughed.

"You're such an _ass_!" she leaped off of the couch, swinging at him, "Oh my _God_. My brother's here. _Will's_ here!"

"Well, shit," I raised an eyebrow and Jane looked at me.

Georgy proceeded to swat at Charlie, "So when I called you and told you I would be here on _Saturday_ --"

"I might have called your brother five minutes afterwards," he blinked, "Bear in mind though; he was way too busy to come here originally. Something happened at work that changed it. I thought I should tell you."

Georgy looked extremely puzzled, "You're telling me _that_ three seconds before he's about to walk through those elevator doors? _Charlie_. What happened? He's not still stressed, is he?"

"He snapped."

"_Again_?"

I turned to Jane, chewing my lip thoughtfully, "This guy sounds a little scary. Maybe we should just leave discreetly."

"Stop that -- we're guests," she reasoned, turning towards Charlie for the barest of seconds.

"What if he's cuckoo for cocoa puffs, Janey, do you honestly want to take that risk?"

"Lizzy, show some compassion."

I grinned at her, taking her hand, "Damn, this sweatshirt smells good."

"I _know_," she grinned, and then blushed accordingly, sobering, "I mean, I _guess_." Laughing, I yanked her to the corner of the living room so that we could peer quietly and unnoticed into the foyer where the elevator entrance was.

It chimed softly, and the doors opened as a young man, very tall, dark haired and quite unreasonably attractive entered.

"Wow, Georgiana's family gene pool is pretty much set," I murmured, and Jane snorted, elbowing me.

Will Darcy was all freshly pressed suit, wide broad shoulders and strong jaw line. I thought I'd just look at him for a second or two longer.

He dropped his bag neatly by the intercom and was suddenly yanked back with the force that was his little sister, practically launching into an embrace.

"_Oof!_" he stumbled back, "Good _God_, Georgy, breaking ribs often?"

"Sorry," she grinned, kissing his cheek. He beamed right back at her, and for a second, I couldn't help but smile with him. "I missed you," he took her hand, and then turned to Charlie, "And you of course, but you know. You're an ass, I always miss you."

"I know," Charlie grinned proudly.

"What happened at work?" Georgy then asked, quite seriously, her features schooling into one of clear composure.

But Will Darcy looked back at his best friend with narrowed eyes, "You told her?"

"I _had_ to tell her. You can always explain later," Charlie assured him, clamping his companion's shoulder, "Will, come on in and meet your sister's new roommates."

"_House_mates," Georgy clarified quickly, "There's a great amount of space there, I promise."

"You mean you were _serious_?" Will Darcy spun around, "I really have to _meet_ them?"

"I brought them here because I knew how important it was for you to know that I'm not rooming with total psychopaths," Georgy said seriously, "Well, actually I sought Charlie's approval first because I knew it would mean a lot to you. You just happened to show up anyway," she paused, "_And_ I wanted to tour the campus. Actually, there were a lot of motives for me swinging by. But you might as well meet them anyway."

"Nice to know you've mastered that rambling problem, Georgy," Charlie smiled, pushing his friend, "Now come _on_, you moody bastard."

When we were all joined in the living room, I noticed, regrettably, how quickly Will Darcy sobered into an absolutely rigid, tight-lipped being. I don't even think he meant to. Call it social awkwardness or not, but it was definitely uncomfortable. His back was ramrod straight.

"I'm Lizzy," I introduced myself, and he could only nod coolly, blue eyes that matched his sister's darting towards my sister and back to me. I shifted, somehow feeling like I was getting an extremely uncomfortable once-over.

"How was your flight?" Jane asked politely, linking her hands together.

"Fine," he answered, his deep voice flat.

"Not turbulent or anything?" Charlie prompted, as if hindering on a joke.

"No."

And then all was static for a couple of minutes.

_You've dialed the Awkward Hotline; leave your monosyllabic answers and we'll get back to you as soon as we can._

"Should I order pizza?" Charlie offered, breaking off the silence. Will glanced at him passively.

"Um," Georgy cracked her knuckles, "Sure, I'll go get the phone."

As she and her brother left towards the kitchen (Charlie shrugging apologetically behind them), Jane and I stood in the center of the living room, exchanging glances.

"Well, isn't _he_ a pocketful of sunshine?" I mumbled dryly, and she chided me.

"He probably wanted alone time with his sister and best friend," she winced, "I feel like we're imposing."

"Nobody else seems to mind," I shrugged, "Maybe he's got a complex – a fear of mingling."

"_Lizzy_."

"Apiphobia."

"A fear of _bees_?" Jane snorted, starting towards the kitchen.

"What's that one where you fear people?" I asked, rolling up my sleeves, "Anthrophobia? Anthro_po_phobia?"

"Lizzy," Jane whispered, "He'll hear us."

"Whatever."

Georgy poked her head out of the doorway to the kitchen, rifling through takeout menus, "Hey guys."

"You okay?" Jane asked, glancing at one of the menus quickly.

"Charlie said there would be a pizza menu here somewhere," she paused, "Maybe it's in the cabinet of the living room."

"I'll help you look," Jane offered helpfully, and they disappeared in the opposite direction.

I was just about to enter the kitchen when I realized that Charlie and Georgiana's brother were having a private conversation inside. I slowed to a stop, hesitating.

There comes a time in one's life when you can do the mannerly, polite thing, smile discreetly and turn around to go look for your twin sister and pint-sized housemate.

That time would have to come later.

Lingering and hidden by the doorway, I spied Charlie removing napkins from a cupboard, his friend sitting gloomily at the kitchen table. It was a shame, to tell you the truth– Will Darcy was _really _good-looking. A stick in the mud, sure, but a really good-looking stick in the mud. Which is kind of ironic because mud isn't really attractive. I'll remember to work on my comparisons in the future.

"I wish Georgy had just come alone," Will sulked, fixing the collar of his shirt, "I missed her and I'd much rather just spend time with you two."

Charlie rolled his eyes, "You should be grateful. She doesn't know her way around downtown Philadelphia – she's lucky to have these girls." A pause, "Besides, I think they're quite wonderful."

"They're really kind of dull."

Charlie rolled his eyes, "One usually makes stupid assumptions like that when he doesn't bother to have _conversations_ with the people he meets."

_Owned._

"What's there to talk about?" Darcy reclined casually, "I don't know them."

Charlie snorted, "Were you absent that first day of Kindergarten when they force you to make introductions and small-talk with other classmates? And possibly share crayons?"

At this point, I was fairly convinced that I was platonically in love with Charles Bingley.

"Are we sharing crayons, Charlie?" his companion muttered dryly.

"Well, _I _like them," Charlie murmured, hiking up his sleeves, "They're really nice, sweet girls."

"You like the blonde," Darcy declared, and I cocked my head, surprised – even more so when Charlie hesitated.

"What? I do _not_."

"You couldn't stop making goo-goo eyes," he pointed out.

"That's ridiculous," Charlie assured him.

"She's wearing your university sweatshirt," Will smirked.

"She was _cold_," Charlie insisted.

"It's your favorite."

"No, it's not," he grunted.

"You like her."

"_Fine_."

I grinned, glancing over my shoulder. I wish Jane had been in the vicinity. Inside, Charlie smiled sheepishly, "Fine, I like her. She seems really sweet."

"She's very pretty," Darcy noted, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table, "Probably lacking in the personality department."

"Oh, _William_," Charlie sighed, slightly annoyed, "You know, her sister's very cute too. Maybe this visit might actually be worthwhile for you."

"You're joking."

"I'm not," Charlie smiled, "She's a very clever sort of girl."

"Don't be ridiculous," Will snorted, "She's bearable, at best."

My jaw dropped.

Ker_plunk_.

He continued on, drawling, "I think I'd more readily shackle myself to your older sister, Charlie, and you know how much Carolyn freaks me out."

"_There_ you are," Georgy suddenly called out behind me, and I spun around, "Were you waiting for us?"

"Of course," I smiled at Georgy and my sister, trying to get my bearings. There was a stillness in the room before us. We entered the kitchen and I was bemused to find Charlie and Will standing, both looking a bit shocked, 95% sure that their conversation had been overheard. Will Darcy rubbed his mouth and glanced down -- Charlie busied himself handing out paper plates.

I had half a mind to leave. But I saw crystal clear opportunity to make Will Darcy feel uncomfortable as hell, and I seized it like a person possessed. I even sat next to him when dinner arrived, not even bothering to look his way.

To my annoyance, he actually made the oh-so-difficult grand _gesture_ of attempting small-talk. He was probably trying to convince himself that he wasn't an asshole for insulting me and my sister. Pleasant conversation fixes everything, right?

Yeah, _no_.

"So, you and your sister have lived in Philadelphia all your lives?" Will asked quietly, frowning – he looked like the action of speaking to somebody was physically _burning_ his anguished soul.

"Yes," I answered, taking a bite out of my slice.

"You didn't find it necessary to try to study abroad or in a father location?" he prompted.

"No."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because."

Charlie snorted.

Darcy cleared his throat and settled into silence, taking a prolonged sip from his glass. From across the table, Georgy lifted both brows but decided not to say anything, though she and Jane looked uncommonly confused.

Thankfully, we left soon after dinner, as it was already growing dark. Georgiana promised she would visit the next day since her brother would be crashing at Charlie's for the next day until he could find a hotel room for the week.

On our way out, Charlie addressed us, leaning against the doorway, "Listen, I'm having a birthday party next Saturday. I wasn't going to, but my sister dragged me into it," he rolled his eyes good-humoredly; "I'd really love it if you could come."

He was looking directly at Jane, but after a second or two, he made a collective invite. Jane smiled and nodded, scribbling down her number for him – "for invitation's purposes, of course" -- and he pocketed the strip of paper quickly, grinning.

Georgy smiled, "I'll see you both tomorrow then."

"Of course," Charlie nodded, turning to me, "Lizzy, it was wonderful to meet you."

"Same, Charlie," I smiled. Will lingered just behind him, so I rose on my tiptoes to see past Charlie's shoulder, "Nice meeting you!"

"You as well," he nodded once, painstakingly.

"Hope you were able to _bear_ the extra company."

At this, Will Darcy turned a shade paler, and I calmly turned back to the elevator.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Holy _crap_, this is long. Yay, Darcy! He's an awkward asshole, I know. I wouldn't have him any other way. Next up, some realizations (yes, big _name_-oriented ones!) and the start of Charlie's birthday. Things be a-brewing. You guys are awesome.

Some people alluded to or asked whether I was basing this story off of some other spin-offs (I think another housemate situation and a Mormon version?). I can honestly say I haven't seen/read any other modern day P&Ps that have been published or turned into films or what have you. But I'm really, really so genuinely flattered and just floored by how sweet you guys are. I'm having so much fun writing this and I'm thrilled that it's being enjoyed.

I do have to warn you though, I know I've been churning out these updates quickly, but I'm going to be really bogged down during the next couple of weeks, so I probably won't get in an update for a little while. Sorry! In any case, I really love feedback, so please let me know what you think of this chapter! Or overall, whatever. It's all good.


	5. Nougat Centers are Bullshit

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Five – _Nougat Centers are Bullshit_)

"It's ridiculously cold in this house," Jane grumbled, eyes clenched shut as she waddled into the bedroom, "October hasn't even hit and I'm seriously considering digging out the space heater from the crawl space."

"Again, I'm all befuddled about your alleged _crawl space_," I mumbled, pulling on a thermal and searching under my pillowcase for plaid pajama pants, "Uncle Benny didn't mention anything about extra room for storage."

"No, he didn't, I'm just super resourceful," she yawned, fluffing her flowered comforter. Leaning towards her toes, she shook out her pale blonde hair from its clip and rubbed her face wearily, "God, I'm beat."

"It must be all the swooning this afternoon that got to you," I made a pained face, "God knows that when _I_ marathon-flirt, it's completely and utterly exhausting."

Jane did the best she could to glare (which is a difficult attempt, because she's probably genetically altered to give hugs and smiles) – and promptly hurled a pillow cushion my way.

"Good arm, Janey."

"You know, you shouldn't act like you weren't a little attracted yourself. I think _somebody_ was complimenting the Darcy family gene pool for a second there?" Her brow crinkled theatrically, "I _think_, though, I really can't be sure."

"Jane."

"It almost sounded like somebody found another _somebody_ attractive," her eyes widened to comic proportions, "Don't quote me on it though, it's all just scraps of conversation."

I rested my hands on my hips, "Jane, a person can be an asshole and still be good looking. I'm pretty sure that's one of the base laws of Hollywood. It's probably even in their film contracts."

"All I know is that for a second there you might have had the hots for Will Darcy," Jane smirked with full satisfaction, finger-combing the knots of her hair out, "And please don't bag on Hollywood, it's like you're trying extra hard to be Holden Caulfield."

"He's my literary boyfriend."

"He's seventeen."

"I love that you find a problem in the age difference before the acute issue of him being fictional," I chewed on my lip in thought, "It's a pretty sound thought process, Jane."

"Just admit that you liked Will Darcy," she narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest pointedly.

"Maybe for a millisecond," I mumbled, kicking my jeans off, "Until I figured out that he was socially _retarded_ – and an asshole, to boot. I already told you what he said about me."

"That was unforgivable, I give you that," Jane considered, pointing a slipper at me, "But have some faith in people. Look at Georgiana – perfectly sweet, _darling_ girl. With a sibling influence like that, you've got to have some nougat center to you."

"Will Darcy does _not_ have a nougat center," I mumbled, slipping my pajama bottoms on, "Just a brittle cold shell and a black hole where the heart's supposed to be."

"Because personal assessments can _obviously_ be made over the course of a couple hours," stated Jane dully, settling in under her covers.

"Obviously."

She rolled her eyes.

After a moment, I settled into my own bed and dimmed the lights, sighing as the covers offered more warmth in the dismally cold house. And after a minute or two, I shifted onto my side, "Okay, Will Darcy has nice eyes, I'll give him that."

Jane burst into laughter, pressing her hands over her eyes, "Are we seriously talking about this?"

"Then again, I'm biased because I think Georgy's eyes are pretty, and his are virtually the same," I made a face, "Maybe a little darker – oh, and _soulless_, but you know."

"Way to prove that you're indifferent."

I grumbled, turning onto my back, "It just bothers me that she's related to such a bastard. At least he lives in North Carolina and not Philadelphia."

"Yes, but you'll most likely have to deal with him at Charlie's party," answered Jane, sighing.

I looked back at her, "I thought you said you hadn't decided on going yet."

"I have," she answered quietly, and I noticed a ghost of a shy smile.

"Well, at least you snagged the sweet one," I grinned, "By the way, _no_ idea how he and Darcy manage to be best friends."

"It probably helps that they're friends from childhood," added Jane conversationally, "At least that's what Georgy told me when we went on our great hunt for menus."

"That makes sense."

"Yeah," Jane shrugged and sighed after a moment or two, "Still, you got to feel for the guy."

"Charlie? Oh, of course. He's befriended one of the most arrogant, narcissistic --"

"I meant _Will_," Jane laughed, reaching across the bedside table that separated the twin mattresses to increase the flow of light, "I feel sorry for him. He's not where he wants to be in life."

"Which is a legit excuse to hate everything around you," I rolled my eyes pointedly, "Shit happens, Jane. It's not like he'll be working there forever. You suck it up and do what you have to do."

"_I _know that, Lizzy," Jane responded patiently, propping herself up on her elbow, "But men are babies. It's simple and logical fact. They take awhile to grow up, even if they already look mature in their suits."

"Not all men – _Dad_ was never like that. I don't think Charlie is. George isn't."

"You've got George up on a pedestal, Lizzy," Jane grinned, "You might be a little biased."

"Am _not_," I muttered, though without much conviction.

Jane sighed, and silence occupied the room for a good thirty seconds.

"I mean, what does Darcy _do_ that is sucking out his soul on a daily basis like that machine in _The Princess Bride_?"

Jane shifted over in her sheets, squinting at me.

"Editing, apparently," she yawned, and I felt increasingly guilty for keeping her up, "According to Georgy, anyway. He's up there in his father's publishing business."

"It's a publishing house?" I murmured, sitting up slightly.

"I guess, yeah," she answered sleepily, "Georgy mentioned something about him reading some manuscripts just for the hell of it. Apparently it's for the lower positions, but she started praising him about being hands-on and involved --"

"Jane, what publishing house?" I asked quickly, my voice small.

"One with his name in it, I think," she sighed, reaching for the lamp, "Lizzy, can't we discuss this in the morning?"

"_No_. Jane, what was the name?" I asked urgently.

"It was _his_ family name and some other guy's, Lizzy, does it matter? Darcy and Potts or Wyatt, or _something_."

"Watts and Darcy," I said quietly, feeling the color drain out of my face.

"That's the one," she yawned again, switching off the lamp. The room went pitch black and she nestled under her comforter and covers. All was still and my mind was reeling.

Precisely three minutes later, light bathed the walls again, and Jane's blue eyes were saucer-wide.

"You don't think --?"

"Oh, it's _exactly_ what I think," I mumbled, feeling sick.

"Will Darcy. William Darcy."

"_Fitz_william Darcy," I groaned, leaning over until my head was between my knees, "Oh, I should have _killed_ him. This all makes sense!"

"I'm pretty sure you were tempted to do that before you knew who he was," Jane replied quickly, throwing off her covers to sit beside me, "Now breathe."

"God, I'm such an idiot," I threaded my fingers through my hair, "Why couldn't I even make the parallels? W&D is in North Carolina, Jane. _Georgy_ is from North Carolina. Hell, _Darcy_. That _name_. Coincidences can only go so far."

"Most people don't go looking for holes like these, Lizzy, they just happen," Jane assured me, "Maybe it really is just a coincidence."

"Jane, that's stupid."

"I know," she winced, "Look, don't let this bother you. You already hated the man to begin with. What more could it do if he's slipped down the meter a little bit?"

"A little bit? He's _off_ the meter, Jane."

"Well, screw him. You'll probably never see him again," she said helpfully.

"He'll be at that fucking party."

"You don't have to go," she offered, "You know what, I'll stay home with you."

"Fuck _that_," I scoffed, "I won't let anybody prevent me from doing what I want to do – nor you. Especially not some big publishing honcho who looks down his nose at others. In reality _and_ in writing."

"Still, you've got to appreciate the fact that somebody up so high even took a glimpse at your writing," Jane shrugged, "Just trying to see the big picture here."

"Jane, this isn't helping in my fit of seething rage right now," I pointed out, "I'm not trying to be rational and optimistic, I'm trying to be angry."

"Duly noted."

"God, I feel so _stupid_. I stood there, in Charlie's living room, really trying to see the good in this guy."

"Lizzy, you _never_ tried to see the good in this guy outside of him being hot," Jane snorted. I wanted to argue, really, but my sister is my conscience and my logical side, and I can't do anything about it.

"Moot point," I mumbled half-heartedly, and Jane gave me a sympathetic smile.

* * *

It was easy to forget about my feelings once the semester started that week. Actually, it was easy to forget about _everything_ except my classes. It all lurched ahead full speed and didn't show any sign of slowing down. Still, in a perverse way, I was happy to be busy. Lethargy can only get you so far until you get sick of it. I was sick of the house – I embraced the campus and lecture rooms perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

I started only working Sundays, so I saw less and less of the Lucases and George Wickham. Over this, I was slightly bummed, but at least I could be back at B&N weekly. Georgy and Jane suffered from packed schedules as well, though Georgy's was more spaced. She would disappear after school most days to visit her brother that first week.

Or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Speaking in the non-Voldemort sense of the word.

Still, the following Saturday swung by far too quickly, and Jane and I found ourselves at the kitchen table, textbooks sprawled out and uncapped highlighters gradually running out of ink. Georgiana had left in the morning to be with her brother and Charlie. Party plans weren't even on the periphery of our minds until Jane glanced up and checked the clock above the oven.

"When's it start again?" she asked, removing her reading glasses to polish the lens with the hem of her hoodie, "Charlie's party," she clarified at my confused expression.

"_Oh_. Seven-thirty," I shrugged, taking a sip from a cooling mug of coffee at my side.

"It's five," Jane winced, sitting up. She pressed a sticky note on the page of her Western Heritage textbook and promptly closed it, shoving it to the side, "I think it's time I stop reading about James II and find something to wear."

"No," I yawned, twisting until my back cracked, "It's time for a cup of tea, a catnap and a good rental."

"Lizzy, come on," Jane smiled good-humoredly, yanking me up by the wrist, "If you're that uneager, _I'll_ even do your hair and makeup."

I folded my arms and cushioned my head against an open textbook, eyes sliding shut, "I'll take a rain check, 'kay? Thanks."

No such luck.

Of course, my closet was unacceptable – a conglomeration of faded, torn jeans, band t-shirts, and sweats. In the very back was a ladylike suit I had used in a couple of interviews, but Jane was usually my go-to girl.

Hanging upside down on her mattress, I watched as Jane walked on the ceiling and rapidly snatched articles of clothing from hangers to fling them onto the bed. An off-the-shoulder sweater landed beside me, its sleeve draped across my face. I didn't feel very motivated to brush it off.

"I'm thinking this black shift with the green cardigan," Jane cocked her head, half of her body consumed by the closet's innards. "What do you think?" she asked, voice muffled.

"I think I don't care," I yawned against my sleeve, curling up with her pillow, "Mm, your shampoo smells good."

"Pantene," she grinned, "Now get up, I'm shoving you into this."

"_No_ miniskirts, though," I quickly cautioned, pointing a finger, "I'm scarred after the Collins incident, eighth grade birthday party."

"He was a little pervy, wasn't he?" Jane laughed, "You decked him, of course."

"Oh _yeah_," I beamed, remembering the very satisfying crunch of cartilage as a boy with bugging eyes around my height went flying in the opposite direction towards the patio.

Jane raised a brow, "Daydreaming?"

"Only a little."

* * *

The weather was pretty agreeable for such a shitty evening – a little nippy, but still. At least that's the only thing I could think of as we miserably sat at the apartment complex's stoop, temporarily locked out and barred from existing with the wealthy Bingleys and company.

We couldn't be buzzed up – either a certain host was way too irresponsible with the volume of his stereo to hear the intercom, or remaining guests were simply not welcome. Admittedly, we were late, but even so. You would expect passers-by to be coming in and out of the building anyway. We spotted nobody.

"We don't even have Georgy's number?" I asked Jane, who rifled through the Address Book of her phone with a gloomy expression. At her firm sigh, I asked, "Didn't Charlie give you _his_ number?"

"I gave him _my_ number," she sulked, pulling the lapels of her fall jacket closer. She was really far too pretty to be spending the evening outside. As for me, I was strongly regretting going bare-legged in flats, and I hugged my knees to my chest, plucking particles of dust off of my hem.

"We should just _leave_," Jane sighed, twirling a blonde tendril, "This is embarrassing and I don't want to wait any longer."

"A few more minutes, okay?" I offered quietly, hugging her around the shoulders, "We paid cab fare and everything. That's a good amount of tens I won't get back any time soon."

A gust warm air suddenly hit our backs, and we whirled around, Jane nearly staggering upwards. Standing in the doorway was a tall, extremely lean woman with a long pointed nose and glossy, auburn hair cut into a severe bob. She squinted as she gave us each a once-over and fished for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her peacoat.

"Any particular reason you two are _loitering_?" she sniffed, and I identified a very crisp, slightly nasal English accent. Jane rose to her feet, shivering slightly, and the woman stared down her nose at her.

"We're locked out," my sister linked her hands neatly in front of her, "We were invited to Charles Bingley's birthday party. Do you know him?"

"I might," she answered curtly, raising the collar of what looked like an absurdly expensive hounds tooth coat. Her eyes were narrow, and not very friendly.

"We're his best friend's sister's housemates," Janey had to glance up in thought for a moment to make sure she had the "lineage" of acquaintances correct. I snorted, and she glanced at me quickly, eyes worried.

The redhead looked apathetic, exhaling smoke daintily through her nostrils. A part of my stomach clenched in slight disgust. I had a thing about smokers. I always thought you could lick asphalt to get the same taste, and it'd be far cheaper.

"If you can, please tell him that Elizabeth and Jane Bennet are outside?" Jane asked, ever-so-polite, "I promise you we were invited to his party a week ago. We're acquainted and everything."

"Are you sure? Because Charlie isn't having a party tonight," the redhead finally answered, eyes widened a fraction more, "Maybe you have the wrong date."

"No, I'm sure it's tonight," Jane smiled politely, "It has to be. He told me himself."

"Charlie's very forgetful, you see," she sniffed again, abandoning the cigarette stub and stomping it out with the toe of her heel, "And sometimes his so-called 'parties' are just ploys to get pretty girl's phone numbers."

Jane looked pale for a split second, and I felt a strong urge to spit on this woman. Or break her nose.

"Carolyn, let them in."

Will Darcy stood on the ledge of the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a black button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, and I really couldn't read his expression – or his affiliation with the woman in front of us.

"You know them, then?" she asked, as he stepped down beside her. I couldn't help but notice the way she attempted to lean into him – and the way he subtly leaned away.

"They're Georgy's friends," Darcy responded evenly.

At this, Carolyn's face lost a few shades of color and she whipped her head back at us. For a second, she looked as if she would burst with anger and resentment. When she finally attempted a polite smile, it seemed like a painful thing to manage – pretty reminiscent of Darcy's own epic failure a week before.

"This is Jane Bennet and her sister Elizabeth," Will Darcy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes briefly met mine and then pulled away, "This is Carolyn Bingley."

"That makes _so_ much sense," I muttered darkly, ignoring Carolyn's sneer of a response, "Now can we get inside already, Darcy? I think we're susceptible to pneumonia by now."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Me? Lie about the frequency of the next update? Absurd._ Okay_, I lied. Mostly because I'm not going to spend my Thanksgiving break writing and I felt obligated to grind out another chapter. I'm a liar. I know. This is just my shtick. I write and write and write, hit a tiny hiccup of a rut and write and write some more.

But holy shit, you guys. Awesome much? Oh, I'd just like to thank Hey's anonymous review catching me up with the processes at literary agencies. Very much appreciated, and I'll try to weave this in somehow. Forgive my ignorance!

So, Carolyn Bingley is ridiculously amusing to write. She's like the reigning Anna Wintour of this story. You almost just want to sketch a caricature of her snarling little visage. There is _much_ more of her to come. I'm pretty psyched -- I very excite (/end Borat).

Again, many thanks for all the wonderful feedback!

---

_**Edit **_(7:41PM): Flames crack me up. In the sense that they're not even constructive criticism, they just kind of blast you with "I think this is annoying and unoriginal". Usually something snarkier designed to make you cry into your breakfast cereal every morning. The best part of it is that they're usually anonymous. See, "no balls". And easily deletable. :)

The thing is, I _get _that my P&P isn't the most original. But I'm having fun writing it either way. I'm not churning out a NYTimes bestseller, I'm writing something on the side that distracts me from every day life. If you don't like it, why bother reading it? Turn around and do something else. Get a hobby. Take up knitting, it's fun. I mean, this is _my _story. I love these characters, and I'll do with them what I want. That's fanfic for you. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.


	6. Vomitrocious

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Six – _Vomitrocious_)

After an extremely uncomfortable elevator ride (featuring little else except for silence and slight animosity) – we finally made it inside, and the evening seemed to take a turn uphill. Especially when Carolyn Bingley disappeared from view.

Bingley's penthouse was jam-_packed_ with guests; mostly younger of course. A dotting of ignorant business associates and their dates in bubble skirts and brilliant, clunky jewelry. But among these types, you could find those who were distinctly human.

Charlie Bingley himself was a vivid example. We hadn't even been given the chance to get our bearings before he we met up with him. Almost immediately, he took Jane's coat. And then we watched his expression crumble when we collectively told him about our escapades outside, having been locked out due to a faulty intercom system.

"Oh _no_," he muttered miserably, peering over our heads towards the door, "I just had it rewired yesterday, too! I'm sorry; I had no idea. You must be frozen solid." At this, he took Jane's hand for one split second and released it. There was mutual blushing, and I had to fight a grin off my face.

"Happy birthday, by the way," I interrupted, pressing a neatly wrapped slip of a package into his hands, which he turned over and over with great care, "It's a B&N gift certificate and a musical card. Be impressed."

"Thanks for ruining the greatest surprise of the evening, Lizzy Bennet," Charlie smirked, pocketing the package, "But thank you, nonetheless. Now come on in and get something to drink."

* * *

An hour later, barefoot (and wielding both flats in one hand), I was quite certain that Jane and Charlie would be the magical, fairy dust-enshrined stuff of epic poetry. Of course, they were only _dancing_ – and with such modest, well-spaced precision that was entirely too clean cut for the twenty-first century. But still, she didn't see the way he held her. Or how he would lean in ever so slightly to catch the scent of her hair.

"Oh look, you've gone all starry-eyed," Sam Hutton, a scraggly dark eyed ex-classmate of Charlie's elbowed me gently in the side, taking a sip from his bottle. Sam was English, a musician, and a compatible drinking buddy. He was fine in my book.

"They're _adorable_," I assured him, resting my chin in my palm, "And this is only the second time they've met. You can't forge that sort of attraction," I verified, clinking bottles with him.

"I'm quite positive you could, love," Sam assured me, resting his head on the wall behind us, "Then again, Charlie's not one for bullshit. But I've got to warn you that he's had many, _many_ crushes since high school. Deep but short-lived."

I shrugged this off. Whatever was meant to happen between them would happen. Hugging my arms to myself, I scanned the crowd. Another Bloc Party song was playing ("Two More Years") and I sorely wanted to dance again. But my feet were achey and Sam was already getting a smidge too drunk. Intoxicated people ideally _do_ make interesting dance partners, but you've got to salvage your toes somehow. And he had squished mine during an incredibly unforgiving Katy Perry song.

Instead, I took to scanning the crowd, looking for particular faces. Thankfully, I had yet to bump into Will Darcy again tonight. But his sister's absence had me a little confused. Then, I spotted Carolyn Bingley rifling through records at the DJ's table, subtly flirting.

"Does Charlie's sister resemble a dragon, or is it just my skewed perception of the world?" I murmured to Sam, crossing my legs. We sat just at the periphery of the dining room table that had been shoved towards the bay windows, and he glanced up at me, teetering at the edge.

"No, Carolyn's pretty terrifying," he burped softly into his fist, "I tried to ask her out once, actually, ages ago."

"_Carolyn?_" I balked, laughing, "Oh Sam, poor you."

"It was brutal, but definitely not a first rejection. I mean, she's beautiful, but a complete ice queen," he grinned, glancing at her from across the room, "Besides, I think she's been pretty knock-kneed over Will Darcy for at least a few years."

I snorted softly at this, brushing the bangs out of my eyes, "I think they'd be perfect for one another." As if acting in direct coordination with our conversation, Carolyn finally located Will Darcy by the refreshments table, pouring himself a stiff drink. I watched with vague amusement as she flitted to his side and threaded her arm through his.

Sam shrugged, raising the bottle to his lips, "No, I'm pretty sure she's not his type."

But Will Darcy never pulled away from her. If anything, he let her latch on with stuffy indifference. And indifference, why, that had to be at least a good notch above cold disapproval. Maybe it was _his_ equivalent of affection.

When I shared this with Sam, he simply ruffled my hair and shook his head, "You read into it too much. She's his best friend's sister and he's built up an immunity for years. Since Charlie's freshman year, at least."

"Maybe she's why he's miserable 24/7," I mumbled, and Sam laughed. "No seriously," I gestured, "I've met the man twice, and he always looks like somebody pisses into his cereal every morning. It's depressing."

Plus, this man basically butchered my manuscript. But I was willing to set this aside for now and blame it on my faulty judgment in shipping it off to W&D in the first place. It had just fallen into the wrong hands.

Not that my self-esteem was recovered enough to try at _Nottingham_ again. It was pretty safely buried in the back of a cramped filing cabinet, where it could stay for the next decade without seeing the light of day.

"Darcy's a complicated guy," Sam assured me, "Don't make the mistake of assuming too much before you get to know him. He's been through quite a lot, from what I understand."

"What if I don't want to get to know him?" I murmured, tracing the rim of my bottle.

"Then it's safe to say your opinion's fixed," Sam smiled, straightening the collar of his shirt half-heartedly, "You're a pretty stubborn girl, aren't you?"

"Yuh-huh."

* * *

Another forty-five minutes, two dances and a straying away from Sam Hutton later, I realized that I had lost my twin. Legitimately _lost_ Jane. Trying to stifle my concern, I calmly searched the crowd for a pretty blonde with a mega-watt smile, and to no avail.

Ten minutes later, I was panicky.

Taking a seat down the corridor beside the powder room, I dialed her number on my cell, only to reach her voicemail, "Janey – where the _hell_ are you? Seriously," I mumbled fiercely into the receiving end.

"_Lizzy?_"

My phone clattered, and I stared at the powder room door, slightly bewildered. Tentatively, I pressed my ear against it and jostled the handle, "Jane? Is that you?"

"Oh Lizzy," a sniffle, "I feel _awful_." This declaration was followed almost instantaneously by the sound of retching into a toilet. I winced and tried at the handle again, coaxing her to let me in. "No, I'm fine, really. It was just those fucking _shrimp puffs_," she moaned, weary, behind the door, "Three hors d'oeurves and _bam_."

"Let me in," I urged, "The hors d'oeurves should be fine, Janey. I even heard Carolyn Bingley bragging earlier about the 'fresh' catering. And believe me, I could care less at the time, but still."

"Then why am I cramping too?" Jane muttered softly, and I shoved at the handle again, "This feels like the food poisoning I got on our seventeenth birthday. Remember? Outback Steakhouse, I spent three hours in the bathroom."

"And then Lydia ate your slice of birthday cake," I shook my head, smiling softly.

"And you shoved her face into yours," Jane laughed weakly, before I heard a retching sound hit porcelain again.

"What if you have the stomach flu? That's going around," I suggested, attempting to unlock the door again, "If you let me in, we can at least get you into a cab and home, where you could rest up. Or even the hospital, if you feel that shitty."

"No, believe me," she paused, "I just need thirty more minutes with this toilet and I should be fine. _Please_ don't tell Charlie I'm in here. I'm mortified for ditching him to _puke_ as it is."

"Jane," I smiled, "I'm sure he doesn't care. And I'm sure you look adorable post-vomit, even so."

"_Lizzy_."

"Fine," I sighed, resting my head against the doorframe, "I'll be right here if you need me, okay?"

"Thanks."

But the problem with hogging up the only powder room in a party with forty or so other guests is that a line (full of complainers) will eventually threaten to form. People have to pee at some point. Almost ironically, Charlie was the first to scope out the problem, a little surprised to find me seated by the door, legs crossed at the ankle, playing solitaire on my cell phone.

"Lizzy?" he asked, perplexed, "Is everything alright?"

"I think so," I nodded, wincing. Glancing towards the powder room's door, I murmured, "I have to tell you something I'm not supposed to tell you, so if you can get a little closer, I'd be really appreciative."

Charlie's eyebrows rose, but he obeyed, squatting beside me, "What's wrong?"

"Jane's in there barfing up a storm," I told him pretty plainly, "I'm not supposed to tell you this because well, it's embarrassing. But some of your guests are being dicks about using the bathroom. If you can direct them towards another, that'd be ideal."

"Of course," he nodded urgently, concerned, "What's wrong with her? Is she sick? Should I get someone?"

"I personally think it's a symptom of the stomach flu or something," I considered, "She thinks she has food poisoning, but I don't think so. Not because I'm trying not to insult your food selection, I'm just saying logically, it's been ruled out."

This didn't seem to quell Charlie's slight anxiety. When he returned a few minutes later (having directed some irritating guests towards his bedroom's bathroom), he wielded an entire plastic bag in his hands, packed full of everything from Advil tablets to Phaezyme.

"Again, an _emergency_ storage, I'm not a pill-popper," he warned, dropping the bag into my hands, "But maybe there's something in there that could help Jane. I feel really awful that this happened."

"It's not your fault," I assured, rifling through the bag's contents, "I think she just has a virus or something. Probably needs to be back at home with lots of tea and a good night's sleep. Did she mention anything about feeling crappy?"

Charlie chewed on his lower lip in thought, shoving his hands in his pockets, "We were dancing and she got a little dizzy and had to sit down. Other than that, no," he paused, "And Lizzy, if she's not able to get back home, my bed's open." A second passed, and he flared beet-red, "Oh God, that sounded really bad--"

"No, I know what you meant," I couldn't help but laugh, "Charlie, it's fine. That's really sweet of you. She already feels pretty crappy for hogging up your bathroom, so I'm not sure how much more of an imposition we can both be tonight."

"Believe me, it's no imposition," he said, "The last thing I want is for Jane to feel worse."

"Lizzy?" Jane's muffled voice asked from within the bathroom.

"I'm right here," I assured her, "You going to let me in or what?"

"_No_," she paused, "Can you steal me something to drink though? Water, maybe?"

"I'm on it," Charlie murmured, turned on his heel, and disappeared.

"You should know that I told Charlie, by the way," I winced, leaning my head against the door, "Before you argue, just know that it's better that I told him. This way, we've avoided bathroom lines and the prospect of you being MIA."

"Lizzy," she moaned, "Oh, this is _mortifying_. Kill me, really."

When Charlie returned, she unlocked the door slightly and let me roll the water bottle in (as well as Advil, for good measure), before quickly closing it and muttering embarrassed apologies to our host through the door.

Charlie said it was nothing, of course, and continued to stand by my side, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. I really appreciated how caring he was being. It said a lot.

Unfortunately, a host can only go missing for so long. A short time later, Carolyn Bingley weaved down the corridor, impatiently tapping her heels, "God, Charlie, where have you been? Some people are leaving and you're not even around to say _goodbye_._"_

She stopped in her tracks and glared down at me, eyebrow raised in question.

Charlie sighed, gesturing towards Empress Bingley herself, "Lizzy, this is my older sister--"

"We've met," I interrupted, smiling cheerfully, "Carol, isn't it?"

"_Carolyn_," she rolled her eyes, resting her hand on her hip, "Honestly, Charlie – what's going on?"

"Nothing that really concerns you, Carol," I squinted up at her for good measure, "I mean, this definitely isn't _your_ party, is it?"

Carolyn reddened slightly, "Ex_cuse_ me?"

"Hey Lizzy," Jane knocked, and I immediately turned towards the door, "I think I'm feeling better. Or better enough to leave the bathroom anyway, but you might need to follow me around with a wastebasket."

"That's dis_gust_ing," Carolyn sneered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No problem," I assured my sister, ignoring Carolyn, "Just tell me when, okay?"

She needed ten more minutes anyway. At which point, I had shooed the Bingleys off, mostly out of feeling sorry for keeping Charlie away from his own party (and partly for getting Carolyn the _hell _away). I was really getting tired from it all, and about five minutes later, I felt myself nodding off.

This was of course, _before _Will Darcy scared the living shit out of me when I woke, towering above me, brooding as always. I flinched violently, and hit my head against the handle, seething.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

I rubbed my head fiercely, glancing up at him, "_What_?"

"I just wanted to ask you how my sister is," he said plainly. He looked away for a split second and shoved his hands into his pockets. God, he was awkward.

"Your _sister_?" I muttered, still feeling sore, "How the hell should I know?"

Darcy looked down indignantly, "You _live _with her. How's her project coming along?"

"Project?"

"Do you really have to repeat everything I say?" he rolled his eyes, "It's like you're suffering from short-term memory loss."

"No, I just have _no _idea what the fuck you're talking about," I muttered fiercely, glaring at him.

"Her project -- the one she had to finish tonight," he emphasized, growing exasperated. And just as his expression looked doubtful, something clicked in my mind. Georgy had never arrived at Charlie's party.

"The one she missed this party for?" I egged on carefully, and Will nodded. I cleared my throat, avoiding his eyes, "She's been working on it really hard. She's almost done the researching phase, but she's kind of knee-deep in books."

"It's for one of her theology classes, isn't it?"

"…Yes."

The _hell_?

Luckily, Darcy sensed that there was nothing much to talk of after this and quickly left, much to my relief. But I couldn't believe his sister. Georgy had played a double-lie. I sighed, leaning my head against the doorframe. It seemed unlike her. I didn't know whether to be concerned or confused. Or both.

I would really have to exchange cell numbers with her soon. Something was up and I didn't feel like being grilled by her ass of a brother in the future.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hate this chapter. I spent three days of re-writes with this chapter. It just would _not_ work itself out, and I'm still not satisfied. But yeah, I feel for Jane in this one. There's a virus going around my house right now, and I've been feeling very similar symptoms for the past couple of days. _Fun_.

Anyway, my grumpiness aside – please review! While I go put on tea and watch a Daniel Craig movie. Because he's awesome. And I ramble and inappropriately use A/N's. I'm going to apologize off the bat for that one.


	7. Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part 1

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Seven - _Sore, Blunt Tongue Part 1_)

I've decided that Will Darcy is a douchebag.

And o_kay_, I realize that making this statement now implies that I actually entertained a thought of him being _otherwise_ at one point – I haven't. But it seems to me that the more and more I spend time with this guy, the more points he seems to rack up on the epic douchebagery scale. I think he's aiming for gold.

_Key Components that Have Helped Our Asshole Climb His Way to the Top Within the Last Four Hours:_

1. Arguing against Charlie's (epically sweet) suggestion to have Jane stay over, on the basis that she might spread something around to poor unsuspecting victims. So, Will Darcy's under the impression that my sister's suffering from the bubonic plague carried over by sewer rats. No big.

2. Sulking fantastically when Charlie insisted (while being epically sweet, might I add) that I _not_ drag my slightly tipsy ass on a midnight train excursion back to our home to gather necessities for Jane, in heroic fear of sketchy muggers and rapists and such.

3. Sulking even _more_ when Charlie egged Will _himself_ into driving me back instead. Fail.

4. Oh, and being a car stereo nazi. Billy Joel's Greatest Hits can only be endured for three tracks, and then it's time to heave ho. I mean, _really_.

In the end, Darcy grumbled something unintelligible (a cross between "I'll be outside" and "Fuck my life"), snatched his keys off of the end table and promptly left the apartment trying to contain a hissy fit that could rival a five year old's. We all watched onward in vague confusion or amusement. Carolyn was the only one even remotely sympathetic. It's nice to know his fan base has at least one member.

The thing is, I was obviously not thrilled to have him as my driving companion for the two and a half hour drive back from Philadelphia – it's one hundred and fifty minutes of my life I'll never get back. But Septa _was_ sketchy this time of night, and the glossy black Lincoln Navigator parked snugly just at the corner seemed a smidge more reliable. I mean, he had managed to get the rental from the airport to Charlie's in one piece, hadn't he? Maybe permanent moodiness didn't translate into reckless driving.

Thankfully, this was the case. As we sat in unbelievably awkward silence and Darcy gunned the engine, we pulled smoothly away from the curb, clicked our seatbelts and were on our way, two very unhappy members of one party. I stole a glance at him once or twice, and his expression was absolutely fierce.

Not Tyra Banks fierce, but more along the lines of "I hope my glaring melts the flesh off of your face" fierce. I decided to attempt reaching out.

"Look, I realize that you're pissy about driving me," I said frankly, attempting to crank open a conversation. Usually when somebody says something like this, they're hanging on the limb that the other person will grin back at you with, "Oh _non_sense, Lizzy! I'm happy to drive you. I would _never_ put you at an inconvenience and my only wish is that your darling twin sister makes a happy, healthy recovery!"

Yeah, no.

Will Darcy clutched the steering wheel a fraction tighter and glanced over at me for the barest second, not even bothering to deny it at first. After a moment, he muttered, "It's fine," and trained his eyes back carefully on the road, jaw tight.

This is when I punched in the stereo's power button, praying for a distraction. One hundred and fifty minutes. One hundred and fifty _minutes_. Probably more. Billy Joel helped some, until "We Didn't Start the Fire" was about a minute in.

"Could you _please_ stop that drumming on the dashboard?" Darcy scowled, glancing over, "It's really annoying." He changed lanes, weaving in and out of traffic.

"I'm barely making any noise – do you have sonic bat hearing?"

"It's a fingernails-on-chalkboard principle," Darcy stated sharply, "Please stop." And so I stopped tapping my fingers in rhythm to the song's bass line. Sometimes you just have to compromise.

"Fine. But you've _got_ to have something better than Billy Joel," I muttered, taking his iPod from its nook beside the gear to peruse its contents. Darcy whipped his head back at me fiercely, attempting to snatch it back, keeping an eye on the road.

"Do you mind? That's _mine_."

"No, I got that. It's engraved with a 'To' and 'From' in the back," I flashed the back at him, grinning, "That's adorable. Your younger sister bought you an iPod," I scrolled through his artists' selection.

"Are you in the habit of stealing personal belongings?" he grimaced, hands settling back on the wheel, "It's really rude. It's beyond rude."

"You _would_ know 'beyond rude'," I muttered, ignoring the heated stare he fixed with me with next, "You know, I don't think you get much use out of Georgy's present. You can always tell by the back – if it's scratched up or not. Yours is practically perfect."

"I usually keep it in a leather case," he vilified, sitting straight, "I lost mine on the flight. Can I have it back now? We can compromise on a song. Or even no music, I honestly don't care. Just _give it back_."

Darcy's like one of those uptight classmates at recess that would freak out if you even took a glance at one of his action figures. I could picture seven year-old Darcy going psycho on account of Captain America. Shitfits would be thrown.

"The 'no music' option is ruled out," I shrugged, "I mean, usually I can go without, but I've got to be honest when I say that this car will implode with the awkward silence that would follow. And I'm not good in awkward silences. In fact, I have temporary Tourette's in awkward silences. It's messy."

"Good to know," he mumbled, exasperated.

"Hey, you have Citizen Cope," I smiled slightly, continuously scrolling, "And Bowie and AC/DC. But I'm starting to think that Georgy went control-freak on your iTunes and did it for you. Because I spotted some Natasha Bedingfield, and you don't seem like a fan."

"Are you honestly giving a musical analysis of my _playlists_?" he snorted, incredulous, "You realize that's ridiculous, right? I mean, do you do this with everybody you meet?"

"You mean steal their belongings or invade their iPods?"

"Both," he answered.

"Yeah, pretty much."

He shook his head, glancing back at me, "Well, maybe my sister's immune to invasion of privacy then. She seems to like you well enough."

I rolled my eyes, settling back into the seat, "Georgy's normal and _tolerant_. It's more than I can say about other people."

"Am I supposed to read into that?" Darcy asked carefully, adjusting his rear view mirror.

"You can if you want." I yawned into my fist, watching cars pass, "It's open for personal interpretation. But I don't think you're going to cry yourself to sleep every night if you find out that I don't like you."

A second passed where he looked at me abruptly, eyebrows raised.

"Oh _damn_. Cat out of the bag. Look, there it goes."

"I won't lose sleep over it, don't worry," Darcy muttered, breaking eye contact. After a second or so, he retaliated, his voice a little softer, "I can't believe you just went out and said that. Usually people keep things like that to themselves."

"_You_ don't."

"I never said _anything_ like that," Darcy emphasized, raising a hand.

"You're right," I winced, drumming my fingers against the dashboard again, "You like _artfully_ despising people. You're all for the subtlety in glares and sulking and moody pouts. Oh, and one word answers, don't forget those. They're golden."

"Wow, thanks for summing me up in the basis of two evenings," Darcy rolled eyes, grimacing, "I _love_ finding out that I'm composed of one shallow layer by a girl who's only known me for a handful of hours. How much do I owe for this psychoanalysis?"

"Free of charge, and you're welcome."

We didn't speak to each other for over half an hour after that, but I could tell he was clearly on edge. We had moved beyond awkward and into open, mutual glowering. But he _did_ keep looking at me every couple of minutes. It was unnerving. I could feel his eyes on my face, expectant, and settled for watching traffic lights stream by.

When we finally took the appropriate exit, it finally dawned on me that I was going home. Y'know – _home_. Where Georgiana Darcy _was_, supposedly, according to Darcy's secured opinion. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sensed another bailout coming on, and quickly asked Darcy for his cell phone.

"What? Why?" he eyed me sharply, "Something to keep the filched iPod company in your collection?"

"_Funny_ – No, listen, I need Georgy's number," I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck, "I want to ask her about something. I left the stove – the iron on."

"Well, which one was it?" he asked, eyebrow raised, "The stove or the iron?"

"I think the iron."

God, Georgy owes me.

Sighing, he fished out his Blackberry from within his blazer and tossed it my way. I scrolled through his contacts until I highlighted her name, and called. Two rings later, she answered, slightly breathless but definitely not distressed. In fact, she was with company.

"Georgy?" I asked tentatively.

"_Lizzy?_" she answered, clearly puzzled, "_Why are you calling from my brother's phone?_"

"Hey, guess who has a more relevant question? Go on, guess," I muttered, as we slowed to a stop at a traffic light. Wonderful, now Will Darcy could gawk critically at me. I looked discreetly back at him, and he looked away. "So how's studying going? You know – _at home_."

"_Oh, fuck_," Georgy sighed, "_Lizzy, I'm sorry. I have an explanation for skipping the party, I promise_."

"No, I know that," I laughed for good measure, eyeing Darcy quickly, "I just want to know if you're in the _kitchen_ right now. Just curious."

"_The kitchen?_" Georgy sounded pained, "_Lizzy, I'm not at the house. I'll probably be there in a couple of hours._"

"See, I left the iron on, so I was hoping you could turn it off in the _kitchen_," I emphasized, "I mean, I'm coming home now with your brother anyway, and I don't want the house to shoot up in flames--"

There was a murmuring of, "_Iron? You didn't leave any--_", then a pause, and then a shrill, "_You're _what_! No. Lizzy, _no_ – Will thinks I'm home._"

"Don't worry about it," I told her quickly, "I'm just grateful you turned off the iron before you went out for a quick run."

"_Quick run?_" Georgy echoed, "_At RiteAid? For a toothbrush. Tell him that, it's plausible. Mention feminine products, he won't argue. You think it'll work?_"

"I think so."

"_Lizzy, I owe you _so_ much_," the younger girl cried gratefully, "_I promise to explain as soon as I can_."

"Uh-huh."

"_Why are you with Will anyway?_" Georgy asked skeptically.

"Jane's infecting Charlie's apartment with viral plague and I needed a ride back to our place to pick up some of the essentials," I paused, "Viral plague probably meaning the stomach flu, but you know. We're most likely spending the night."

"_Oh, that's awful_," Georgy sighed, "_Keep me posted_."

"I would say the same for you, if I knew you were capable of it. Y'know, _sharing_ stuff." Darcy was preoccupied in changing lanes for a split second, and I found safe boundary for that moment.

"_Ouch_."

"Well, it was deserved," I shrugged.

"_No, I understand – extremely deserved._"

I sighed and ended the call, tossing the Blackberry back into Darcy's lap. He glanced up at me and pocketed it, "Well?"

"Iron's off," I murmured, gauging his reaction, "But you're sister isn't home. She took a late night run to RiteAid to buy some things. I won't go into detail. _Girly_ things. Things you insert--"

Darcy blanched, cut me off quickly, and left the topic distinctly untouched. Success.

* * *

"I can't believe we're _locked out_ of your own home," Darcy scorned, towering above me as I crouched down to jam my key into the lock. It budged slightly, but required force. I blamed the dwindling temperature. It had been five minutes since we had parked at the driveway, and I wasn't very keen on staying outside.

"We are _not_ locked out," I muttered pointedly, ramming my shoulder against the door to will it to move. A crack was heard, followed by a whimper, "Okay, that was my shoulder." I rubbed at it, knowing for sure where a bruise would blossom the next morning.

"Let me," he attempted, all but shoving me aside and taking grip on my personal set of keys, "You're obviously not strong enough."

"Because I drank _so_ much alcohol," I mumbled heatedly, shoving him back, "Hey, you mind not pushing me? Thanks much. And get _off_ my keys. They're not yours. You don't have a Spongebob keychain."

"Suddenly personal possessions _mean_ something to you," Darcy sneered, shoving his hands into his pockets. I glared at him over my shoulder, forcing my weight against the door. "Look, we'll shove it together, okay? Your house is falling apart at the seams."

"Yeah, okay," I muttered, rolling my eyes. We counted from three, and applied dual force against the door. It gave way, and swung sharply, hitting the Picasso print on the left wall of the foyer – and incidentally sending Will Darcy flying into me just beside it by the impact.

"I think your elbow landed between two of my _ribs_," I winced, shoving myself out of the tangle of limbs and ignoring the fact that he smelled good. Darcy pulled away quickly and collected his bearings, straightening the collar of his shirt. He flinched once, but only because I reached over his head to prod the light switch.

"Relax, Jumper," I muttered, kicking my flats off by the closet. I was already making a mental checklist of what to get Jane as I walked into the kitchen to search the cabinets. It wasn't until I was elbow-deep in Zicam and varying models of old thermometers until I sensed someone breathing over me and whipped around, "What the fuck?"

Darcy looked uncomfortable – which was not uncommon – and shrugged, "I'm just waiting, I guess."

"Yeah, I'm all for that, really," I narrowed my eyes at him, "But don't wait so closely, okay? I need a personal space intact."

"Trust me, I don't want to invade your personal space," Darcy snorted, rolling his eyes. He took particular interest in a photo frame just on the kitchen counter, placed it back, and looked around, "Your house is so --"

"Cute?" I offered, collecting what I needed and marching toward the bedroom, "Charming?"

"_Small_," Darcy elaborated, and to my annoyance, he was following me, clearly without anything better to do. For a small fraction of a second, I pitied him. He hadn't even wanted to go in the first place. But the feeling evaporated quickly. This was Will Darcy. I didn't really give a damn.

Plus, he had just insulted my house, and was standing in the doorway of the bedroom I had bitched about him in nearly a week ago. I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with that.

Sighing, I rifled through our dresser drawers and chucked some sweats, clean socks, undergarments, and Jane's pinstriped pajamas inside of an oversized Tiger Schulmann's duffel bag. Chewing on my lower lip in consideration, I dug out our stash of travel-sized shampoo, a hairbrush, and a pair of sneakers.

"You just about done?" Darcy muttered, glancing at his watch, "I really don't understand why this is taking you so long."

"Look, just chill out," I rolled my eyes, "Utilize that iPod – take a seat on the bean bag. I don't give a fuck. But we came this way, and I need to get what Jane needs."

Darcy grumbled his irritation, but out of the corner of my eye, I watched him take an experimental seat at the neon green bean bag by the closet. He sunk into it, and quickly pulled himself upright, "What the hell is the point of _this_? It doesn't even support you."

"It's comfy," I muttered, folding clothes.

"I can feel my ass in the _floor_," Darcy stated, standing, "Seriously, how much longer are we stuck here?"

He had taken a hop and a skip from moody silence to bitchy nagging. And neither sat well.

I rolled my eyes, really wanting to shove him out but lacking the time, "I just need to pack my stuff real quick, and I'll be good to go. Go wait in the car. _Something_."

But Darcy looked genuinely surprised then, asking hesitantly, "Wait a minute – _you're_ staying over Charlie's too?"

"My sister's sick; of course I am," I stated plainly, challenging him. As if there was seriously any other option. Besides, it wasn't as if _Will_ ran Charlie's own apartment. In fact, Charlie had invited us both himself. I opened my mouth and closed it, not knowing why I felt the need to justify this.

But Darcy just stared at me pointedly, looked away, and left me to finish packing. Fifteen minutes later, we were back on the road, and silence reigned once again.

* * *

**Author's Note:** One of a two-parter! Lizzy and Darcy sparks have officially begun. _Reer_. And I _love_ writing it. It's only going to go downhill from here, guys. In terms of arguments and over all bitchery.

The chapter title's a lyric from "Flightless Bird, American Mouth" by Iron&Wine.

Please review!


	8. Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part 2

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Eight – _Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part 2_)

Getting three hours of sleep kind of has the effect of zombifying your daily actions the very next morning. Every movement is half a step more sluggish, and every facial expression seems forced if you don't have any encouragement from caffeine. Actually, it kind of feels like you were hit with a Greyhound bus and were casually rolled back into your queen-sized in the middle of the night, limbs flailing and all.

I was the first one up in the Bingley household. I had made the courageous plunge for coffee filters through the kitchen's granite marble counters and wooden cupboards. Zombified Lizzy was on the prowl, and all Charles Bingley seemed to have was shitty caffeinated herbal _teas_.

I was really tempted to leave the apartment in my state of ratty PJs and equally messy bun – maybe just snatch Darcy's Lincoln car keys from the peg by the intercom, make a quick dash and be back before anybody had even stirred. It was tempting – there was a Manhattan Bagel a few blocks over. But my morals got the better of me. Darcy had almost pissed himself from an allegedly stolen iPod. I think he might notice something amiss if an entire SUV had up and vanished.

Still, it was lonely in the loft, so I plunked down into one of the armchairs, fished my phone out of my bag, and watched the sunrise slowly from the balcony window while waiting for Charlotte Lucas to pick up at the other end. When she did, she sounded surprisingly perky.

"You're awake," I balked, absently blowing strands of hair out of my eyes, "I thought I was going to get voicemail or that screeching cat sound you make when I wake you."

"_You mean the Howl of Doom?_" Charlotte deadpanned, "_No, I've been up for a couple of hours. I have to cover _your_ early shift_," a sigh, "_How's your sister, by the way? Still blowing chunks rapid-fire?_"

"That was a lot more visual than I had wanted it to be," I winced, "And no. She's been sleeping through the night. She did throw up around two though. I think I'll take her to the doctor's as soon as she gets up. Nobody's up here yet."

"_Talk about your lazy bumpkins_," Charlotte murmured, cheery, "_Is Prince Charming still salivating?_"

I had mentioned Charlie Bingley _once_ in a conversation with Charlotte – this was how her coinage of nicknames worked; speedily, and mercilessly. Charlie had been branded without knowing it. PC worked for short because eavesdroppers were usually under the impression that we were comparing Macs and Sony Vaios. And Charlotte and I indulged in butchered codenames because we most likely harbored a secret desire to be eight year-old girls again.

"He's very sweet. She slept in his bed last night," I paused, "And yes, I know _exactly_ where your mind's going, but before it gets there, you should know that he has two guest rooms. He occupied one, and his best friend occupied the other. Jane and I bunked up."

"_Why do you have to strip such good material away from me?_" Charlotte sighed gloomily, which was followed by a sharp clatter of dishes, "_What the French toast, Scout? I gave you kibble half an hour ago; there's nothing for you on that kitchen table. Motherfudge_."

"How long are you going to keep swearing like the Orbit gum commercials?"

"_Until it stops amusing me – and my dog_," she answered, "_Pisses Brenda off though. Speaking of which, you really have to get your ass in here one of these days. We have a new girl, and I don't remember why I hired her. But sometimes she looks like she's on the verge of tears, so that might have had something to do with it._"

"Can't George do anything?"

"_George can _flirt," Charlotte snapped irritably, "_It's gotten worse since you started flaking out on us, because his material is going dry and he needs somebody to practice on. So this poor, gawking girl just stands there while George goes on about his tricked out '67 Mustang and that time he drank a gallon of milk in under an hour and vomited into his brother's glove compartment_."

"I hate that story," I winced.

"_See, but at least you tolerate it_," Charlotte added in breezily, "_Because we all know you dig George Wickham and want to have his babies. It's probably the dimples. Or the fact that he looks like the long lost member of Hanson_."

"He does _not_. You're never going to give this up, are you?"

"_Nope_," there was a long pause where neither of us felt much like saying anything, until she interjected with lyrics, "_Never going to let you down,_" she added punctually, "_I don't even like Rick Astley, but God, it's catchy."_

"Rickrolled," I smiled, resting my head on the arm of the chair, "Should I get you his Greatest Hits album for Christmas?"

"_Um, you _best_ be. Oh, and I'm Jewish – just FYI. We've only been friends since infancy."_

"Sorry, my mind spaced over political correctness."

"_That's okay; it's overrated," _she paused,_ "So what's it like there in La Casa de Jane's Dying? PC's digs and all."_

"I'll send her your warm, fuzzy regards," I rolled my eyes, rising to my feet. "It's lovely and all, it's just that he has no coffee," I paused, peeking through the curtains of the bay window, "And his best friend's a dipshit. A possessive dipshit. A possessive, _narcissistic_ dipshit. Not that that's irrelevant or anything."

I still had yet to inform Charlotte of the other link I unfortunately shared with Will Darcy via my damned-to-hell manuscript, and hesitated. Finally, I opened my mouth –

"_Is he good looking?_"

I faltered, squinting, "Why would that matter?"

"_Morally, it wouldn't_," she murmured, munching on something – probably breakfast, "_But I'm shallow and curious, so clue me in._"

"Trust me, it doesn't even matter," I scowled, tugging the curtain back into place, "It's like you're led to believe one thing, and then he opens his goddamn mouth and it's just infuriating. He's an asshole."

"_He's probably good looking, in that case. You have some strange resentment towards handsome guys. I've been clubbing with you, I know these stats_."

"That's com_plete_ bullshit."

"_I know_," she chirped.

Five minutes later, Scout, the only plausible love of Charlotte's life in the form of an extremely active Siberian Husky, became finicky again and the conversation had to be left at that. I stretched and found my way back to the bedroom, sorting through the duffel bag in search of my HU hoodie and a pair of jeans. Jane stirred and yawned, rustling the sheets.

"You're up early," she murmured. I sat by her side and brushed a strand of her pale blonde hair behind one of her ears. She squinted up at me, smiling, "When did I change into my pajamas? I can't even remember."

"When I came back from the highway ride of hell with Will Darcy," I told her casually, patting her hand, "Don't worry, no need to look panicked. It was amusing, and I learned a lot in the case of bean bag appreciation and iPod theft." Jane arched an eyebrow, so I switched topics: "How are you feeling? You look less pale than you were last night."

"I feel better," she sighed, propping herself up onto her elbow, "I think you're right about the stomach flu thing, though. I don't know if it's shitty enough for antibiotics, but it's definitely no ray of sunshine."

"You should go to the doctor's anyway," I paused, glancing at my bag across the room, "I should make a quick run to the pharmacy and get you plenty to drink. Dehydration would be pretty unpleasant right about now, wouldn't it?"

"You don't have to, Lizzy," Jane insisted, "Seriously."

"Don't worry about it – there's a Walgreens a few blocks over anyway," I mumbled, shrugging out of my pajama pants in favor of jeans. I pulled on my hoodie and dropped my sleepwear into an untidy pile at the dresser.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive; do you want anything to eat?" I asked, slipping into a pair of moccs, "You're probably starving." But Jane just shook her head, and I grasped my purse from the corner of the bed.

There was a knock at the door then, and we whipped our heads around, surprised when Charlie entered hesitantly. He was already dressed, and embarrassed, lacing his hands behind his back, "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt."

"You're not," Jane sat up slowly, hugging her knees, "Morning."

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, smiling slightly, "You seem better. Can I get you anything? I have tea. Actually, a _ridiculous_ amount of tea. It's Carolyn's, but honestly, there's _loads_ --"

"That'd be nice," I interrupted, laughing, "Jane, you're sure about breakfast right? I'll be there anyway."

"I'm sure."

"Where are you going?" Charlie asked.

"Just to Walgreens for some necessities," I looked at Jane, "She needs plenty to drink."

"That's probably true," he murmured, rubbing the stubble of his chin in thought, "Get Gatorade too, electrolytes tend to help." At Jane's raised eyebrow, he added, "My mother's a hypochondriac, I've been through so many runs to pharmacies."

"I sympathize," I smiled.

"Can I drop you off, then?"

"No, that's fine. It's only a few blocks away – I'll walk."

* * *

I loved walking in the city – there was something so different and appealing about urban landscapes when you've been stuck in the suburbs for the majority of your life. It turned a smidge sketchy and confusing when I took a wrong turn around ten minutes in, circled the area, and stopped in front of a barren old dry cleaners with cracked windows and a suspiciously colored stain on the front door.

"Oops."

So, I wasn't born with the greatest sense of direction. Some people should just emerge from the womb with a GPS system latched internally, and I'm no exception. But I _did_ finally locate the Walgreens. After asking for directions, but you know. It also turned out to be five blocks further than I thought it had been, but that's okay.

Needless to say, the hike back was interesting.

In fact, I had _almost_ succeeded in dragging the two grocery bags to Charlie's apartment in their entirety. Almost. Just as I was pulling myself through the entrance door to the lobby, I felt another person shoving at me from the side, trying to get in. And I stumbled. _And_ the bottles upon bottles of Gatorade clunked out of the now torn paper bags and splashed all over Carolyn Bingley's pristine Gucci boots.

And may I just say, this woman has extraordinary pitch. I don't know that many people who can sculpt their voices to sound like that sharp, high-pitched nasal hum that your television emits when hold a cell phone in the vicinity – but she's a woman of many talents.

"Sorry," I winced, kneeling down to collect the bottles and reseal the one that had cracked open, "Hey, those are _white_. That blows."

Carolyn raised her heel indignantly, attempting to wipe off the berry stain with her sleeve, "God, could you _be_ any clumsier?" after a moment she paused, eyes narrowing intensely, "Wait a minute – did you spend the _night_ here?"

"Ja."

"_Why?_"

"My sister, she hath blown chunks," I muttered, collecting my bags and moving towards the elevator. To my immeasurable delight, Carolyn Bingley followed close behind, heels clicking on the marble floors. She stepped onto the lift just after me, and punched in a number.

"So your sister's sick?" she said slowly, fixing the strap of her purse over her shoulder, "That's terrible."

"Yeah, you seem really torn up over it," I clicked my tongue, watching the numbers climb, "You stalking your brother again?"

Empress Bingley sneered, "Is that what you call paying a visit to a sibling you love? _Stalking_?"

"Well, you've got to realize that by 'stalking your brother' I obviously meant 'stalking Will Darcy'," I shrugged, grouping my groceries, "But you know, call it whatever you want. It's a free country."

She narrowed her eyes, "First off, Lisa --"

"_Lizzy_."

"I suggest you keep your assumptions to --"

"Oh, look," I smiled sharply at her, as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, "We're here and I'm done caring." I walked past her and into the empty loft, dropping my damaged bags onto the kitchen counter. I heard a distinct _harrumph_ from the room over, and the sound of clicking heels receding.

I smiled and began unloading the two six-packs of Gatorade I had bought, along with a couple of trashy tabloids for Jane and some much needed instant coffee (which was as good as it was going to get at this point). Maybe I could fix breakfast too – she had to eat something. Toast would have been fine, but first she needed to stay hydrated. I searched Charlie's kitchen drawers for something sharp, finally locating a cheese knife to cut the plastic sealing off.

* * *

Fitzwilliam Darcy had a distinct feeling of being rammed by a Greyhound bus while he had been sleeping. Insomnia usually has that bruising effect. It was a shame, really. Philadelphia wasn't really anybody's first choice of a sunny vacation spot, but he had come to Charlie's for a much needed case of replenishing one's spirit and some solitude with his best friend.

So much for that.

Dressing quietly, he debated when would be the appropriate time to return to Charlotte. He had taken a two week leave ("Oh, a mental health two _weeks_, is it?" Charlie had smirked) – after having what could best be described as a baby hiccup of a meltdown at his father's company.

A chair was broken in the process.

Oh, and a receptionist had been dissolved to tears, but this was just a standard case of win some, lose some.

Darcy grimaced, straightening his collar. He didn't _personally_ think of himself as a complete jackass. It was probably just nerves, heaped on after missed deadlines, incompetent employees, and the prospect of being chained to a company you had no _desire_ to work for.

"Six more months," he murmured to himself, tucking in his shirt, "Six more months, and you can do anything you'd like." Six more months, his replacement would be ready, and he would happily sign his control over to the poor schmuck, shackles unbound. Law school seemed pretty promising. Maybe he'd take some time off to travel. Georgy was always talking about Tuscany – maybe he would take her. Or Prague; they had relatives there.

Darcy's thoughts were put on hold when he heard the clatter of dishes outside of his room, followed by a girl's laughter. He rolled his eyes. The one time he had come to visit his best friend in _months_, and Bingley's loft was already harboring 2+ members. One was beautiful and about as intellectually stimulating as cardboard. And the other?

Well, he hadn't really decided what he thought about Elizabeth Bennet.

Sighing, he left his room with a laptop bag in tow, and entered the kitchen to find it completely occupied. He stopped in the doorway, thrown off guard that he had slept so late in comparison to the others. At the table, Jane Bennet had bottles of Gatorade at her side, and was smiling slightly at a joke Charlie was murmuring to her. She was pale, and a little weak looking, but Charlie –

God, Charlie was holding her _hand_.

"_Will!_" Carolyn Bingley chirped by the kitchen sink, setting aside a bottle of Pellegrino. She hugged him passively around the shoulders and he uncomfortably let her. Yes, Carolyn was overly affectionate to him, but he had learned to just bear it in the last few years. He shrugged her off after a couple of seconds and found a pot of coffee at the nook of the kitchen counter and tentatively sniffed it. When he glanced up, he accidentally caught Elizabeth Bennet's eye, where she sat beside her sister, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table.

"It's shit because it's instant, but you'll have to make do," she assured him, grinning in a way that seemed mocking, at best. Narrowing his eyes, he poured some into an empty mug and snatched some milk from the refrigerator.

"Y'know, I really have no problem driving you," Charlie was continuing a conversation with Jane, taking a sip from his mug, "I just don't know if you feel well enough to go home. I don't want to force you out only to have you pass out or something on the train."

"I wouldn't," she assured him, smiling slightly, "And you're not forcing me out. I just feel like such an imposing shit as it is, so," she laughed weakly, leaving her sentence unfinished.

Darcy raised an eyebrow, not sure if this was Jane Bennet's way of asking for an extended invitation or what. He glanced to Lizzy Bennet for a split second, but she was ripping off bits of toast distractedly and popping them into her mouth.

"No, God, you're not," Charlie assured her, actually looking insulted for the barest second, "You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like. Stay all day, seriously. It's not like I'm really doing anything."

Darcy and Carolyn both glanced up, the latter of which clearing her throat, "Charlie, I thought we were going to the Rodin exhibition tonight. I asked you if you wanted me to buy you a ticket."

Charlie shrugged, "Buy one for Will."

Darcy coughed into his fist.

"Never mind, don't buy one for Will."

"Don't change your plans for us," Lizzy shrugged, stretching briefly, "We probably have to be back home soon, anyway. Oh, and I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning, Jane. Doctor's is closed today."

"I don't even think I need to _go_ to the doctor's," Jane shrugged, "They just recommended lots of fluids for a mild case of the stomach flu."

"You should probably get plenty of rest in your bed too, hm?" Carolyn suggested sweetly, but it wasn't difficult to pick up on the strong implication that Jane Bennet reside at her _own_ home. This passed over one Bennet's head, but Elizabeth Bennet's eyes narrowed with a sort of aggression that simultaneously intrigued and frightened Will Darcy.

Not that Lizzy Bennet was terrifying. She was just a sort of shade of unpredictability that caught him off guard.

She caught his eye for a second and he looked away, stirring his coffee. They had barely spoken since they had returned to Charlie's _very_ early that morning. He looked back up when he was sure that she wasn't looking his way.

Something about Lizzy really _bothered_ him, and he couldn't place his finger on it. It was definitely some absurd mix between her verbal diarrhea and extremely outspoken opinions. She was unfathomably rude and aggressive. It irked him.

He took a seat at the kitchen table, sipping from his mug. Carolyn took a seat beside him, her leg just slightly brushing against his. He blinked twice and shifted subtly a couple of inches to the left. To his surprise, Lizzy snorted across the table. She had noticed, and quickly buried her face back into her cup.

Darcy grimaced, watching her intently. The thing was, she wasn't that remarkable of a girl. Lizzy Bennet was actually pretty plain. She had dark, occasionally frizzy curls usually pulled back, a pale face and an average, if not slightly curvier figure. She was nothing short of ordinary.

Maybe she was a delicate flower deep down.

"Jane, I just want you to know that I'm okay with being a vomit bag," she suddenly alerted her sister, "If you feel it, just go. I'm okay with chunkage."

Okay, maybe not.

"I'm flattered, Lizzy, but I'm fine."

Charlie grinned and took her empty mug and his own from the table, approaching the kitchen sink to wash them, "You know, I really wish I had some post-birthday food, but it's all mostly hors d'oeurves and half of a frozen cake from a bakery from Northeast."

"Oh, you mean like those big, iced cakes from the Russian bakeries?" Lizzy grinned, splaying out her fingers to guesstimate the size of this concoction, "With all that nauseatingly rich icing and chocolate layers?"

"Disgusting," Carolyn agreed for once, "I really wish you would've let me buy the cake, Charlie."

"No, I love those cakes. They're so rich that you kind of feel like throwing up afterwards," Lizzy justified, shrugging.

"And that's _obviously_ something to love about them," Darcy replied dryly, raising an eyebrow at her across the table.

"Yeah – I can't really explain it," Elizabeth chewed on her lower lip in thought, "It's amazing for about two minutes and then you just upchuck the rest of it."

"That's _gross_."

"Lizzy, how many more times are you going to mention _vomiting_ in one morning?" Charlie laughed, replacing the mugs up on the highest shelf of one of his cupboards, "I think Jane sparked some morbid obsession of yours."

"Lizzy doesn't really have a filter between her mind and her mouth," Jane said matter-of-factly.

"We've noticed," Darcy muttered into his cup, surprised to find that everyone was looking at him for a moment. He cleared his throat and dug through his laptop bag until the attention focused on something else. Thank God he had brought his Mac.

Carolyn leaned against him as he opened his email, watching his screen, "Who are you emailing?"

"Just a co-worker."

"Wow – you're _so_ quick with technology, Will! I can barely work a Mac."

He distinctly saw Elizabeth roll her eyes at the other end of the table.

"Carolyn spends a _lot_ of time on the internet," Charlie smiled affectionately, "Reading CNN articles and updating her stock portfolio on Ameritrade."

Carolyn sneered, clearly not appreciating the joke.

"No, a girl like Carolyn? She probably just updates bikini photos onto Facebook, dontchya?" Lizzy shrugged, smiling in a sense that could only be described as syrupy and very similar to Carolyn's own facial expressions.

The air was static for a second, and Jane looked worried.

Finally, Carolyn released a tinny, completely insincere laugh, and settled for watching over Will's shoulder again.

"Will, seriously, do you have to be online now?" Charlie begged, "We're sitting here having some semblance of breakfast, and it'd be nice if you could join us. This is the first semi-meal this table has seen in about a year, if you can believe it."

"I can," Darcy replied.

"He needs it as a crutch," Lizzy justified, "Darcy's just socially inept."

"Wow, are you _really_ back to spinning judgments again?" Darcy scowled, snapping his laptop shut.

"I can't really help it – it's that _filter_ thing, remember?" she answered, steepling her fingers and fixing him with a cool stare, "I'm apparently _beyond rude_."

Jane paused, "What happened?"

"Nothing," they chorused, one glaring and the other smiling pleasantly.

God, she pissed him off.

Carolyn, on the other hand, didn't like the cryptic connection between the both of them and promptly pried the silver Mac out of Darcy's hands and opened it up before her, "How do I access the internet?"

"Safari," Will muttered, looking away, "The compass icon."

"See? This isn't very daunting," she cast him an award-winning smile, and Lizzy drummed knuckles loudly on the table. Carolyn flexed her fingers and opened a Gmail account, scrolling down a list of contacts, "I think I'll email _Georgy_ today. I haven't spoken to her in so long."

"She's probably studying," Darcy answered.

"_Such_ a good girl," Carolyn sighed, typing – or rather pecking at the keys, "Does she still play the guitar?"

"No," Darcy responded, tracing the rim of his mug idly, "She stopped a couple of months ago because it was distracting her from her studies."

"She should've taken up the piano," Carolyn pursed her lips, "It's such a more refined instrument."

"And you play --?" Elizabeth prompted, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Darcy looked up, watching her interview Carolyn.

The elder Bingley glanced down her nose at the girl, "I used to play the flute."

"Wasn't that in the third grade?" Charlie asked, confused, "The one you threw at Lyssa when you dropped out of the program?"

"I did not _drop out_ of the program," Carolyn said pointedly, rolling her eyes, "I just declined from performing at any of the school's concerts. They were all amateurs."

"_Right_," Lizzy said dryly, grinning. It was then that Darcy noticed that, if anything, she had uncommonly bright eyes. They might have even been considered pretty, when she wasn't glaring. Okay fine, maybe even when she _was _glaring.

Carolyn ignored her comment and raked a hand through her flat-ironed hair, "Anyway – I think it's wonderful that Georgy turned to music as a hobby. She's definitely growing into an accomplished young woman. You know, she reminds me of somebody."

"I hope you're not going to say _you_," Lizzy laughed. After a second, she paused at Carolyn's glare, "Oh fuck, you were. My bad."

"_Lizzy_," her sister warned pointedly.

"It's okay, I'm already marked in Carolyn's book," Lizzy sighed, "I accidentally spilled Gatorade on her designer boots this morning – Oh noes."

"You didn't!" Jane looked on, wide-eyed.

"Well, she already apologized, so it's forgotten," Carolyn smiled forcedly.

Darcy raised an eyebrow, and Charlie cleared his throat, seeking refuge in jumping ahead in the topic, "I never really understood what you would mean by saying a girl's accomplished, though. What _is_ that? A high GPA, impressive degrees and a penchant for needlework or something?"

Lizzy smiled at him, amused.

Darcy shrugged, "Obviously she needs good schooling, so impressive degrees don't hurt. Some fluency in another language or two would be nice, musical experience, pleasant with families and children --"

"I'm sorry, are we talking about a Stepford Wife or something?" Elizabeth asked, eyebrow arched.

Darcy frowned, "No, not at all."

"It's just sounds like the next thing on that list would be an affinity for cooking gourmet dinners and popping out six babies," she shrugged, "It's like you're describing a robot."

"That's a little harsh, speaking about your own gender, don't you think?" Darcy justified, blue eyes narrowed, "It's not unattainable."

"Of course not," Elizabeth smiled, "If she's a _robot_. Or a blow-up doll you can invent a story about."

"Lizzy, I promise you not everybody has seen _Lars and the Real Girl_," Jane assured her twin.

"I know, but Ryan Gosling owns," she noticed Darcy's confused stare and shrugged, "Look, all I'm saying is that no self-respecting woman would _do_ all that for a man. If she does, then that bitch must be terrifying."

Charlie snorted, laughing.

Lizzy shrugged and leaned back in her chair. Darcy stared at her – and once again, was nowhere closer to understanding Elizabeth Bennet.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Holy hell, this is _long_. So much for completing my homework on time. Oh, I just wanted to add a fair bit of warning that sometimes I'll be switching from first person (Lizzy's POV) to third, mostly to offer Darcy's opinions without completely delving in. Obviously, I'll stick to Lizzy's POV for the majority, but I also want to use this approach. Let me know if it's choppy or confusing, because I'm really trying to avoid that.

Please review and let me know what you think!


	9. First Impressions of Earth

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Nine – _First Impressions of Earth_)

It was Wednesday before I even spoke two _words_ to Georgy. I wouldn't go so far as to say she had been avoiding me since Jane and I returned Sunday afternoon. But she would always leave the house just as I was digging out coffee filters, bleary-eyed, from the kitchen cabinets in the mornings – the door would slam long before I could even register sound. She'd come back an hour before midnight.

This happened three consecutive evenings in a row.

If we had known each other longer, I might have taken the incentive to creep into her room and see if something was amiss. Which it obviously _was_, but I'm a preachy kind of girl when it comes to privacy. Plus, bedrooms are a kind of personal sanctuary. They reveal a person's true nature, and I wasn't convinced that I was ready to deal with whatever Georgy was hiding in there. Be it weed, used condoms or a smuggled Mexican.

And then at seven o'clock that Wednesday morning, dispersing grimy little fish food to Affleck and Damon and trying pretty fiercely to avoid getting flecks onto my plaid PJs – that damned she-Darcy snuck up on me and I nearly had a heart attack.

"I just wanted to give you this," Georgy said quickly, blue eyes urgently wide. She pressed a slip of loose leaf into the palm of my hand, and I must have been staring at it like somebody mentally incompetent, because she elaborated with, "It's an _address_."

"Oh," I said, reading her loopy, neat scrawl – _S. 28__th__ Street, Philadelphia, PA._

"Can you meet me there?" Georgy asked, adjusting the strap of her messenger bag, "My last class ends at four today, so let's aim for five-thirty."

And in my state of sleepy haziness, I just nodded passively.

It wasn't until three of my own classes, two thermoses of coffee and one conversation with Jane later that I realized I had _no_ idea where I would be meeting my ever elusive housemate. Sense of direction, remember? Scant to nil.

South 28th Street was the address for a music lounge. Legit, a cramped, sleek little afterthought of a restaurant jammed between two depressed looking establishments – a drugstore and an old children's boutique.

The place was called Forty-Three Steps. They had live music and $10 rounds of drinks. And my just-shy-of-eighteen housemate had led me astray _here_, of all places. When I found her inside at a corner table, flipping and closing her cell phone repeatedly, I couldn't help but point out, "Y'know, Starbucks doesn't even serve alcohol. We could've met there."

Georgy smiled apologetically and we sat down – and I watched her wring her hands together repeatedly, "Lizzy, I know I have some explaining to do here."

"That's your choice," I shrugged, drumming my fingers on the tabletop, "I mean, I'm curious, sure. I _have_ been protecting your ass from Big Brother Darcy." I leaned back in my chair and admired the big, looming black and white stills of Center City architecture hanging on the opposite wall.

"See, that's the thing," she sighed, raking a hand through her black hair, "Will wouldn't understand. All he would see is that I'm avoiding the truth with him, and that's it."

"Georgy, I'd love to comment," a pause, "I just have _no_ idea what the fuck you're talking about."

"Fair enough," she nodded, chewing on her lower lip. And in a second, she reached under the table and withdrew a long, distinctly instrumental case – an acoustic guitar.

"Do you have weapons in there? Like Antonio Banderas a-la-_Desperado_?"

"No," she unlatched it, revealing a beautiful, if not slightly aged acoustic.

I ran a hand down the furnished wood up to the neck, plucking a string or two, "I heard you dropped this for your studies."

"That's the thing," she winced, "Lizzy – I work here."

I frowned, confused, "Sorry, what? _Here_."

"Yes, at Forty-Three's."

"You're a minor."

"I don't wait tables; I play," she gestured to the guitar, "It's a long story, but a friend of a friend heard me playing a few weeks ago on campus and introduced me here," she smiled, "And well, I love it. It pays extremely well and I feel really appreciated for my music."

I blinked at her repeatedly, kind of at a loss of what the hell a supportive housemate would say in this situation.

"Hold up," I raised a hand, "Why would it be such a big deal if that's the case? Why would Dar – Will be so pissy about you continuing music if that's what you really love?"

"Because I'm not doing too hot in my classes," she winced, resting her chin on her palm, "Or y'know, _at all_. I'm an all-or-nothing girl, and music completely distracts me when I let it. Maybe it was bad timing to get this job."

"You think?" I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, "Please tell me you aren't flunking classes."

She didn't say anything.

"_Georgy!_" I groaned, "Fuck, I can't keep covering your ass. Especially for reasons like this. Something's got to give. What are you going to do, become a professional musician?"

Georgy slumped, looking disappointed.

"I'm not doubting your abilities – I hear you're incredible," I patted her hand, "But if you can't find a balance then cut it off and move on. If that's too difficult, then maybe we can work something out. But school comes first, you know that."

"I know," she sighed, tracing circles on the tabletop, "Especially because Will wants me to transfer to Duke once I reach a certain amount of credits – the dean's family and ours go way back, and he'd like me close to home. I need beyond stellar grades at this point."

"First off, I don't think I've made it secret that I think your brother's a controlling," I paused, "…Person. But besides that, you have to work something out to be well off at HU. Who found you this job?"

"This guy that my friend Lucy's sister used to date," she said quietly, spreading her hands out before her, "He's a little older, but he's _really_ nice. He works here on Friday nights." Georgy smiled slightly, but it was enough to tell me what I needed to know.

"Uhm – how much older?"

She winced, "Twenty-three?"

"I'm sure your brother's going to have a field day with that one," I snorted, leaning back on my seat.

"We're just friends, honestly," Georgy rolled his eyes, "I mean, he's sweet, but I'm not stupid. And speaking of Will, please don't mention anything to him, Lizzy."

"You already know that I won't."

She stared at me meaningfully.

"So," Georgy shrugged, "This is where I was Saturday night instead of at Charlie's," she beamed after a second, "It was so crowded here – it's lax at noon, but seriously."

I smiled at her, and she slung her strap of her shoulder, adjusting the acoustic guitar. After or moment or two, she started plucking out the first notes of what I recognized (with sheer, piss-your-pants delight) to be the beginning chords to Chris Cornell's "Seasons".

"Oh my gosh, I love you," I sat, fascinated, "Let's have children."

Georgy grinned, strumming the introduction with nimble, beautiful clarity. After a second or two, she began a lilting, acoustic version of "Moonlight Sonata" and I was lost in a daze for a good three minutes or so.

"Okay August Rush, here's a question for you," I pointed out, resting my chin in my hand, "Why not musical school?"

"It's not practical. Will thinks I should go into Business and Finance."

"If you start one more sentence with 'Will thinks', I'm going to kill something," I warned her.

Georgy snorted, "You really don't like my brother, do you?" she paused, "I feel like there's a stronger dislike after Saturday than before."

"He's a treasure trove of all things good in the world, GDarce," I said matter-of-factly.

One who kind of had the increasingly awkward tendency to _stare_ at me from Sunday morning until we left in the afternoon. Glaring or just staring, or what have you, Will Darcy had one of those intense gazes you could feel in the back of your neck. It was unsettling, and it increased up until Jane and I left Charlie's.

"He's a complicated guy."

"See, you're the second person to tell me that," I clicked my tongue, "The first was Sam Hutton. I'm starting to think there's a strict family and acquaintance bias going on here."

"Or maybe you're just ignoring the fact that two people are defending him," Georgy teased, grinning, "Wow, Sam Hutton. I haven't seen him in years. I used to annoy him and Charlie all the time."

"I think that position's occupied by Carolyn now," I muttered, and Georgy laughed. "No, honestly Georgy, the entire morning after we slept over, all she did was overkill flirt with your brother, giggle and surf Perez Hilton."

"I would have been pretty surprised if she had done anything differently," Georgy winced, "As for Will – well, yeah. She's kind of wanted my brother since, well, ever. It's disturbing."

"She was all cutesy about you too. Singing praises," I sighed, "God, but she's such a witch. She could give Cathy Ames a run for her money."

Georgy raised an eyebrow.

"_East of Eden_?" I shrugged, "Never mind."

"See, Carolyn kisses ass to get on Will's good side," Georgy continued, "But the truth is, Will just puts up with her for Charlie's sake. As if he could ever be interested in Carolyn."

"It could work," I shrugged.

"_No_," Georgy said emphatically, wrinkling her nose, "Doubtful. Besides, Will usually goes for brunettes. Or at least he did, when he was still dating," she paused, "By the way, how's Jane?"

"Sleeping," I replied, ignoring her quip about brunettes, "I took her to the doctor's Monday morning. She's on antibiotics now. For the next few days, anyway."

"That sucks," Georgy winced.

"I think she's okay with it though," I paused, "I've been picking up her assignments, and she's been at home eating leftover Chinese and watching _Will & Grace _reruns. Oh, and chatting it up with Charlie for the past three days."

"Oh really?" she smirked, intrigued.

"He calls her. A lot."

"He _would_," Georgy laughed, "Well hey, I'm rooting for them, if something does happen. I think it's obvious how he feels about her though. He smiles a lot, but not nearly as much as he did when she was in the room that day you met. My cheeks hurt just looking at him."

"True enough," I couldn't stop myself from grinning.

"And Jane likes him too, right?"

"Well _ja_," I laughed, "She's all blushing and quiet and awkward as hell. Sometimes she's just beyond shy, and let me inform you, it's a tell-tale sign."

"I don't know, subtract the blushing and I'd think that she was being distant or something," Georgy shrugged.

"She's just quiet – never makes the first move."

"Gotchya."

"So my dear," I sighed, zipping up my bag, "What are you going to do about this place? Pick one day – one day of the week you can work here."

"One?" Georgy winced, sulking. For a second and a half, I saw Will Darcy in her likeness.

"Yes, one," I murmured.

She straightened, considering it, "Fridays."

"Coincidentally the night that _boy_ works here, but I'm going to pretend I don't know that and compromise," I sealed the deal with a handshake, "Oh, and before I go, I have to ask you a question."

"I have to go, too; I have to start a twelve-page paper," she sighed, "But yeah, shoot."

"Why's your brother's name Fitzwilliam?"

She snorted, surprised, "Wow, did he actually admit to that being his full first name? He never does."

"Charlie told me," I lied, feeling shithead-ish.

"Fitzwilliam was our mother's maiden name. Call it a true-blue joining of surnames through the name of the first kid in the family," Georgy clicked her tongue, "This was of course, before my mom left my dad brokenhearted, moved to California and started a family of her own."

I winced, "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," she assured me, "Anyway, it's not like I have many clear memories of her. I've seen her a handful of times in my life. Will's seen her much more, and he's about ten times more bitter."

"Will Darcy, _bitter_?" I blinked, "I can't even imagine it."

Georgy rolled her eyes upward, grinning, "Here we go."

"I can't help myself; It's too easy to pick on him."

"One of these days, Lizzy," Georgy stood up, adjusting the case's strap on shoulder, "One of these days you'll see tings a lot differently than you do now."

"I'm sure."

* * *

"You know, we _do_ have a free texting plan," I pointed out to Jane, mid-dinner preparation. She glared at me from the counter (dressed adorkably in bear PJs) and pressed her hand to the mouthpiece of her cell. I added, "Then again, you might end up sending fifty texts to Charlie per hour, and that's just time-draining in terms of Spell Check."

"Lizzy, I'm going to spit in your salad."

"What a horrible thing to say," I pouted, hugging the blue glass bowl to my chest, "I even got croutons for you and everything, no need to bitch."

She smiled and rolled her eyes, taking up her phone conversation again, "Yeah. No, she's just making dinner and being ever so sweet, as usual," a pause, "Of course," a short, blushing giggle, "Okay, bye."

"Has Charlie's ear dislocated itself yet?"

"Oh _good_ one," Jane pointed out shrewdly, popping a stolen cucumber slice into her mouth.

"What do you think you'll name your kids?" I considered, stroking my chin and losing the effect since I didn't have a philosopher's beard, "I'm feeling something catchy and original. Like Jojoba or Shanaynay."

"Will you _stop_?" Jane laughed, swatting at my arm, "We're just friendly, that's all. There will be _no_ making of babies, okay?"

"You're the second person to feed me that 'we're friends' spiel today," I muttered, salting the vegetables.

Jane looked confused for a minute and I shrugged, "Don't worry about it, I'll catch you up eventually."

"Good to know," my twin sighed, stretching delicately, "Oh, you _do_ know that we're visiting home on Saturday for dinner, right?"

The wooden spoon clattered mid-stir and I groaned, "What, no. You can't be serious."

Jane popped her lips boredly, shrugging, "Mom called this morning. And honestly, Lizzy, it's been _ages_ since we've been back in Longbourn County."

"I'm okay with that."

"Well,_ I_ miss everybody," Jane sighed, resting her head in her hand, "I miss Mom's oversalted cooking and Dad camping out in the study all the time when Kit and Lydia get annoying."

"Which is practically all day because they're _always_ annoying," I muttered, mashing my salad a little too fiercely.

Jane fixed me with a glare, and I slumped, "Okay, I do miss them – Dad especially. I might even miss Mom too. And Marin. But you know what it's like, Jane – everyone in that house is fucking insane to some degree."

"That's not true," Jane shook her head, "Oh and apparently Marin's going through a mega-moody phase lately. At least that's what Mom tells me. She's gotten all sulking."

"This is what happens when you live with Kit and Lydia and you're stuck being Mom's lackey," I said crisply, "That house sucks out the _soul_. Thank God we got out when we did."

"Lizzy, it's not Alcatraz," Jane snorted.

"Still," I grimaced, setting aside the bowl, "It hasn't even been that long since we were _there_, Jane. I still remember the smell of burnt cookies and Jonas Brothers music on repeat every fucking day."

"I like Joe Jonas," Jane winced apologetically.

I pointed my spoon at her, "We're not friends anymore."

Jane grinned, reaching over the counter to kiss my cheek, "But I _love _you – Thing #2."

"Stop it. And only Dad can use that joke, okay?" I pointed out, "You didn't even like _The Cat in the Hat_ growing up."

Jane shrugged, "Yeah, but did you ever think that it _wasn't_ a Dr. Suess thing? Maybe Dad just forgot our names and decided to call us Thing #1 and Thing #2 from a brain fart."

"Yeah, but then I decided that that kind of thing was probably reserved for Kit and Lydia."

Jane flung a slice of pepper at me and I ducked, laughing.

* * *

That Saturday, I finally showed up for work – and keeping up with old traditions, simultaneously snuck in some studying underneath the supply shelves. Charlotte would move by and thwack me upside the head every five minutes or so.

"You're pretty awful at time management, you know?" George grinned, mopping up a mess with a used rag.

I flipped him off.

"My heart's breaking," he pouted, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me towards him – and because I have pathetic upper body strength, I utterly failed at prying myself away.

"You're an asshole."

"I missed you too, Lizzy," he grinned, finally releasing me – but at this point, my hair was mussed, and I huffed, throwing my visor off to pull my hair back into a bun.

"See," George handed me back my textbook, "I always seem to make time for things. It's always just come naturally to me."

"I'm sure," I laughed, quickly taking an order and snatching a cup from a dispenser, "Didn't you skip classes all the time before you dropped out?"

"Okay, _fine_, there's a weaker point," he shrugged, "But I'll have you know that I'm balancing two jobs and both are going pretty damn well at the moment, thank you."

"What's the second, corrupting little children?"

George narrowed his green eyes at me, "Cute, Lizzy – and no. This one lets me express myself a little more clearly than say, fixing up frapps and peppermint mochas would."

"That's deep," I told him, putting a hand over my heart, "Please don't tell me you're in the porn industry now."

"Lizzy," Charlotte whipped me good-humoredly with a rag, "You want to close your mouth for a second and get to work?"

"_Yeah_ Lizzy," George teased.

I rolled my eyes and took Charlotte's place by the register, "Hi, what can I get you?" I looked upward and paused, mouth hanging open stupidly, "_Fitzwilliam Darcy_."

There was a clatter of cups behind me, but I kind of didn't register this. Will Darcy stood before me, extremely uncomfortable, as always, "Hi."

"Um, hi," I frowned, blinking, "Isn't this place a little out of your way from Charlie's?"

"He dragged me here at Georgy's suggestion," Darcy pointed out, "Better customer service," he paused, glancing down, "Apparently."

"Yeah, I'm sure you think so now," I smiled, snorting, "And where is Master Bingley?"

"In the New Age & Philosophy aisle."

I nodded, hesitating, "Um – yeah, so coffee?"

So I took his order for two tall Café Americanos and was stuck making idle chitchat while Charlotte whipped it up. But just as I spun back to face Darcy, equipped with some bullshit, fifteen-second topic about the weather, I noticed that he was glaring – and just over my shoulder, right at George Wickham.

I'm not talking 'You working-class scum, you _better_ make that no foam' snob glaring, but full-out, tight-jawed, eyes burning, fists _clenched_ glaring. I backed up.

"Hey Will," George offered, standing rigidly. He looked smug and angry at the same time, "How's life been treating you?"

Darcy didn't reply.

George nodded, smiling ironically, "Life's _grand_ here, you know." He draped an arm over my shoulder.

I looked back at Will, and our eyes met for the split, bone-chilling second before he turned on his heel and walked away. And despite my major creeped-out state, I leaned across the counter and called out, "Wait, your order!"

But he turned the corner and was already gone, leaving me with half of my body hanging out past the countertop like a deranged, deeply confused moron -- which wasn't far off from the real thing.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This AN has no purpose besides telling you all that you're absolutely a_maz_ing. True story, please review.


	10. Bridges We've Built

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Ten -- _Bridges We've Built_)

There was a rush of fabric, a yanking of the wrist, a slam of a supply closet's door, and suddenly my back was arched into the cobwebby shelves lined with merchandise in the back of the cafe. Charlotte had a finger pointed at me under my nose, and I might have feared for my life if I didn't already know that the 5'2 redhead was virtually harmless.

"You know, they'll be looking for me," I told her off-handedly, shoving my hands into my apron's pockets, "If they find a carcass in here, it'll be tough to dig up an alibi."

"That was _Will Darcy_," Charlotte narrowed her eyes, finger consistently pointed.

"Yuh-huh," I raised an eyebrow.

"Lizzy, I heard you say his full name – that was _Fitz_william Darcy."

"Am I supposed to follow this, because I'm kind of having trouble."

She rolled her eyes and jammed the rim of my visor down until it squished my forehead. I swatted at her blindly, scowling, until I was able to fling it off.

"When were you going to _tell_ me that the asshole you had been spending time with was none other than the bastard editor whose balls you wanted to fricassee?" Charlotte pivoted her hands on her hips, exasperated.

"That was vivid, Char – touché," I muttered, finally surrendering when she glowered. "What did you _want_ me to say, for God's sake? I'm trying to be _civilized _here and just ignore it – especially since he's my housemate's brother," I rolled my eyes, "Besides, I didn't think it was that important. Bygones and all that shit."

"Lizzy, there are two things wrong with that statement," my best friend said helpfully, raising two fingers, "A, you could never be civilized. We've attempted this since Kindergarten. Stop trying," a pregnant pause, "And B, of _course_ it's important! Even _with _bygones."

"I'm handling it," I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest, "And by handling it, I mean not bringing it up. I know enough about that man to know that it was my _own _fault for sending the manuscript to his company. He's in a state of permanent pissyness."

Charlotte arched an eyebrow, "He didn't look that pissy before he saw George."

"Yeah, what the fuck _was _that?" I asked, glancing at the small square of glass afforded in the doorway out – George was knelt over by the counter, his back facing us, rewiring the register. He hadn't spoken since the incident. Then again, three minutes hadn't lapsed between the time that Darcy left and Charlotte kidnapped me.

Charlotte shrugged, picking a feather off of her apron, "All I know is that it was unnecessary tension in the workplace, hon, and you and me should be the only ones to supply _that_. Lovingly, of course."

"Of course," I smiled, yanking a strand of her hair half-heartedly.

She swatted at me, "_Any_way – you kind of glazed over that Darcy guy during our phone conversation," she smirked, "Sulking or not, that boy is _fine_."

"I haven't noticed."

"Are you selectively _blind_?" she cooed, "Half of the women in the vicinity looked over. And the man at the corner table reading a Liza Minnelli biography."

I rolled my eyes, shoving past her, "You want to make coffee now? 'Kay thanks."

"_Now _she wants to make coffee," Charlotte muttered under her breath, following close behind me.

* * *

I caught up with George after his shift ended. And by caught up, I mean dashed out at the last minute, still in uniform, to find him dwelling in the parking lot. He was digging through his car, and I startled him so that he narrowly avoided hitting his forehead on the edge of his trunk. I'm a girl with expert timing.

"Jesus, Lizzy," George lifted his head carefully, ducking out of the way, "Don't do that."

"Whatchya digging for down there?" I asked, peering inside, "Atlantis?"

"My _guitar_," he raised an eyebrow, hauling up a beat-up, gray case.

I didn't even know he played. I hugged my arm self-consciously, not entirely sure how I would ask him what I wanted to ask him.

"Let me guess," George smiled ironically, dimples apparent, "You want to know how it is that _I_ know Will Darcy."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, seeing as you've been giving me concerned little glances all afternoon and you raced out here after my shift?" George took a moment for a sentimental pause, "I'd say it's obvious, yes -- I just didn't know you cared so much about me, Lizzy Bennet."

"I'm not one for flattery; Now tell me before I scratch your car."

"How do _you _know him?" George pressed on curiously.

"I asked you first."

"Just tell me."

I remained stubbornly tight-lipped.

"God, _fine_. You're so fucking persistent. I don't know if it's a fault or an asset," he took a seat on top of his closed trunk, leaning his elbows against his knees, "Let me paint a picture for you, then -- it goes back to freshman year of university."

I sat beside him tentatively, "This reminds me of _Reading Rainbow_." George Wickham glared and I cleared my throat, "Sorry, continue."

"Okay well, Will Darcy was my roommate our first year at NYU," George Wickham muttered, plucking off loose threads from his sleeve, "Actually, we go way back to sophomore year of high school. Unbefuckinglievable, right?"

_That _was for sure.

"Wait a minute -- _Charlie Bingley _was his roommate."

George raised an eyebrow, "Oh ho, look who's got their history. Nope, _Bingley _came along just after the first semester ended. Darcy and I shared a dorm room. I wouldn't say we were necessarily _close _-- but we straddled that weird mark between acquaintance and friend. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Anyway," George leaned back until he was perched against his rear windshield, arms folded beneath his head, "Just before the holidays, we went to a friend's party. I didn't even _like _the asshole anyway, so I left early to get some sleep. Darcy obviously stayed," he sighed, squinting, "At around three in the morning, the smoke detector goes off."

I frowned, crossing my legs Indian-style.

George was smiling bitterly, "See, I don't even understand what _possessed _him to light a joint up in the middle of the night. Fuck, I didn't even know he _did _that. I don't understand if it was the fact that he had privilege and money in the palm of his hand and could do anything he wanted -- or if he got a little shitfaced at the party."

"Jesus," I muttered, hugging my arms to myself, "What happened?"

"_Caught_, obviously," George muttered, rubbing his face wearily, "He had stubbed it out before they barged in. So they searched through our drawers and stripped our mattresses. And they finally found something -- a _bag _of the shit hidden beneath _my _bed sheet."

"He set you up," I mumbled blankly, feeling disgusted.

"And I took the fall," George grinned remorsefully, "_He _had a reputation to uphold, and I knew his family was going through a rough patch. At the very most, I expected him to plead with the board or attempt to stick up for me. But the bastard just _stood _there. I was thrown out by the end of the week."

"But couldn't you have defended yourself?"

"Elizabeth," George patted my hand, "If your daddy's paid the university a ridiculously large sum of money, I'm pretty certain that they'll take _your _word over that punk roommate of yours who's riding on scholarship funds. It has to be basic principle."

"And all this time, I thought you dropped out."

"I think it preserves my dignity a bit rather than saying I was _thrown _out of NYU," laughed George callously, "Oh, and don't forget about the community service hours that followed -- there go several months of my life I'll never get back."

"God, what a _bastard_," I seethed, closing my eyes, "I can't believe he _did _that to you. He truly doesn't care about anybody but himself, does he?"

"I'm not sure if that's true," George slumped his shoulders, "The people he cares about, he defends to the death. I've never met his family, but he's always been very protective. If you happen to be out_side_ of his elite, precious circle, he'll happily throw you to the dogs. It doesn't matter how decent a person you are, or the sacrifices made -- he ultimately decides if you're good enough or not."

And this description, judging by personal experience, was a dead ringer.

"God, I'm so _sorry_," I mumbled, suddenly hugging him tightly.

He laughed against my hair, pulling back an inch, "I didn't take you as the hugging type, Lizzy."

"I'm not," I pulled away self-consciously, "I just feel like it's unbelievably unfair what happened to you."

"I guess," he replied quietly, glancing up, "So, how do _you _know the poor bastard?"

"He's related to a friend of mine."

"Small fucking world," George grinned.

"Tell me about it," I muttered.

"Well hey, don't worry about me," George insisted, "I'm taking night courses at community college and balancing two jobs. Things will work out in the long run. In the mean time, please don't join the pity-party or create a support group in my honor. I think it's more than enough that you even bothered to listen."

"If you want a support group, I'd seek the _other _Bennet twin," I hugged my knees, "As for the listening part, I'd like to think that I'm good at it for a girl with a severe case of motor-mouth."

"You are," George smiled, socking me gently against the jaw, "Thanks, Lizzy."

I smiled, glancing down.

And then for a brief second or two, his hand didn't really _leave_. It stayed and cradled my cheek. And before I knew what was happening, he was suddenly extremely close.

"George --"

I wanted him to, that was the thing. I think I _wanted _him to kiss me. But the word slipped out before I could even comprehend it.

"_Stop_."

And so he did. His hand dropped, he cleared his throat, and he sat perfectly still, green eyes vaguely surprised. "Sorry," he winced, "I'm sorry. I know -- that was _weird_."

"A little," I murmured, feeling myself blush.

"I guess I saw an entrance."

"Which was my _mouth_."

He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"No, George," I rolled my eyes, "I think it would've been _nice_, don't get me wrong. But I just don't really feel comfortable with this yet," I babbled. And miraculously blushed more. _Fuck_.

George nodded, looking downward, "Yeah, it might have to do with the fact that we've been working side by side for the past year and a half. Sorry for making things awkward."

"That's okay."

"I just really like you, Lizzy," he looked up, "You're not like most girls."

And I opened my mouth to respond, really I did -- it's just that my ringtone beat me to it (and I have _never _hated "Magic Carpet Ride" by Steppenwolf more than I had at that very moment).

* * *

"See, the thing about the 'You're not like most girls' comment is that it's probably used on _most girls_," I reminded Jane stoutly, watching her stubbornly change gears, "So in all actuality, saying that comment to a girl makes her_ like most girls_."

"Digging yourself too deep, kid," Jane huffed, shifting into gear, "_Man_, Charlotte's car is shitty. Thank God she lent it to us, but still -- how _old _is this Pinto?"

"Fifteen years," I sighed, glancing at the chipping paint job from the side mirror, "Janey, I don't know if I did the right thing."

"Yeah, I'm not sure why you didn't kiss him," my sister grinned cheekily, "God knows you've had a thing for George Wickham for more than a year. And he's _always _flirted with you."

"No, he hasn't."

"Lizzy, wake up and smell your own lattes," Jane balked, laughing, "Every time I'd come visit you, that boy would _constantly _be chatting it up. Hell, he'd have his _arm _around you, he'd always be teasing you, complimenting you. It was like flirtation central over there. I don't know how Charlotte put up with it," she paused, "Maybe on the secret hope that you'd make her a bridesmaid at your wedding."

"That's complete and utter bullshit," I rolled my eyes, digging through my purse, "I mean, _fine_. Maybe I've had a small thing for him. I wouldn't even call it a thing -- It's more like an extremely fine-tuned curiosity."

"It's fine to admit that you're attracted to somebody," Jane cast me a sidelong glance, "The guy's charming and _hot_, okay? I don't blame you for crushing on him."

"God, what _is _this? Are you spending more time with Charlotte? This is ridiculous!"

"River in Egypt, honey."

"Oh, why don't you just go coo your little pleasantries at Charlie?" I snapped, laughing when she glared at me.

"I _knew _you would bring that up."

"_Honey, are you looking at the moon?_" I pouted, simpering,"_Because I'm looking at the moon and wondering if _you're_ looking at the moon -- and it's so beautiful, baby._"

"Charlie has _never _said that!" Jane snorted, outraged, "He just _happened _to comment on the full moon the other night, and you were eavesdropping on speakerphone and being a brat about it."

"He's so sentimental and artsy, Jane," I sighed, leaning back in my seat, "And he's crazy about you. Put the poor boy out of his misery already and _date _him. I swear he probably wants to do more than get into your pants. It's just a hunch."

"I'm going to hit you."

"You punch like a girl," I reasoned.

"Oh, shut _up_. And do me a favor, okay? Reach into my bag for a comb and a tube of mascara," Jane glanced over at me quickly, "We're going to our mother's house, and she may combust if you rock that _I-don't-give-a-damn_ look today."

"But I rock it so well," I teased.

"_Lizzy_."

"Kill-joy," I muttered, snatching her satchel from underneath the glove compartment.

* * *

Our house in Longbourn was perched on a ridiculously high hill. This created the _illusion _of a more expansive property. In reality, it simply resulted in an extremely steep, winding driveway that had been the sight of champion sled races throughout the stellar snow days of my childhood. As a direct result of _that_, this great hunk of asphalt had witnessed about three lost teeth, a broken arm, two sprained ankles (_both _from yours truly). And about one Lydia worth of urine.

She had a bladder control problem around age nine.

"God, I missed _home_," Jane beamed, slamming the Pinto's door shut carefully. She perched her shades over her ponytail and plucked a dust particle or two off of the hem of her cotton dress, undoubtedly readying herself for our mother's inspection.

Glancing around with my hand as a visor to block out the setting sun, I actually couldn't help but think similarly. I had missed little, normally forgettable things about our house. The brick pathway and tool shed Jane had skinned her knee in by the garage. The rickety gazebo Mom had sworn to fix up five summers ago. The winding silver maple by the porch I had shoved Billy Collins out of my freshman year of high school.

He was a Peeping Tom with an asthma condition and a thing for Jane. It's a long, troublesome story.

And then the deepest, most beloved relic in our little snow globe of nostalgia made me grin ear-to-ear. John Bennet sat right at the stone steps, with his pant legs hiked up, reading glasses sliding down his long, narrow nose, and blue-gray eyes squinted at the creased newspaper before him. And by my guess, his hearing had probably _continued _to fail since we left -- he hadn't even reacted to us pulling up.

Until Jane tackle-hugged him and I almost slapped her for inducing a heart attack.

"Re_lax_ Lizzy," Dad pulled me into a bear hug, "You know I'm the healthiest thing in this house. Regardless of what type of bran cereal your mother shoves into me according to the day of the week," he ruffled my hair, grinning widely, "God, I missed you two."

"We missed _you_, Pop," Jane beamed.

Dad squinted up at us, "Look at you two, all grown up and beautiful. Janey, you get prettier by the day. I guess we know which parent you take after. And it isn't your mother."

"You're gorgeous, Dad."

"I know."

Jane rolled her eyes, grinning, "I'll see you two inside -- try not to burn any houses in the process." At that, she jostled the doorknob and disappeared inside.

"I can't believe she's _still _running that burning house gag," Dad muttered, folding his reading glasses into his shirt pocket, "It was just a Christmas light show malfunction _eight _years ago. We didn't know it would torch the Jenkins' shed. How many fruit baskets does a man have to _send_?"

"Water under the bridge, Daddy," I laughed, draping an arm around his shoulder.

He smiled at me fondly, squeezing my hand, "I missed you, kiddo. Let's go inside and see whatever crap your mother's managed to cook."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yee, surprise. Holiday update. I wanted to get this in at Christmas time, mostly because a good portion of this chapter (and the next, undoubtedly) is family oriented and fitting. I wish you all a very merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or whatever you happen to celebrate! Much love and all the best.


	11. Of Verbal Spats and General Loathing

**Author's Note:** Winter break is making me productive! Sorry for the frequent email alerts, guys. I have a tumor of a plot bunny right now. And she's just about used up and won't come back until 2009 (yes, that's purposefully vague). And now I'm bludgeoning already poor metaphors, so I'm just going to, y'know, _stop_. But thank you for all the lovely reviews and support!

* * *

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Eleven -- _Of Verbal Spats and General Loathing_)

My mother's first words to me, after carefully orchestrated months dedicated to avoiding her, were quite stoutly, "Elizabeth Bennet, _please_ invest in that thing they call a haircut."

"I missed you too, Mama," I grinned, leaning down to peck her cheek. And despite our long, drawn-out feuding for most of my existence ("_None_ of my children are this difficult!") she enveloped me in a bone-crushing, maternal hug.

She's a mother hen through and through. I don't mean a creation out of a cookie-cutter household from the '50s, but a clucking, nearly headless chicken who must control _everything_. Your nutritional values, laundry dates, dance recitals, soccer practices, prospective boyfriends, and the amount of shower time you're allotted in order to preserve hot water for the rest of your sisters. Everything is gathered into a scrambled checklist that is my mother's mind – with one, ever present catch.

"Jane sweetie, are you seeing anybody?" Mom prompted, smoothing my twin's hair back lovingly. You couldn't see it at first, but if you looked this sentence up in the Faith Bennet Dictionary of References, you'd find that it directly translated into: _Eldest daughter, you better be planning to settle down soon, because grandchildren don't make themselves._

"Fay, for God's sake," Dad muttered, agitated. Jane grinned at him thankfully and kissed him on the cheek – and Mom got huffy and declared in a simpering tone that we were always ganging up on her and taking my father's side.

"Notice how you never ask _Lizzy_ if she's seeing anybody?" Jane hinted at sneakily, eyes narrowed at me from across the kitchen counter, "That's perfectly plausible too."

I glared at her threateningly, "Do you _want_ me to hurt you?"

"Lizzy doesn't like boys; they have cooties," Dad stated in a dead, perfectly serious monotone – a phrase he's repeated to every one of my dates, starting with Timothy Gresham at the tender age of ten. A boy who fled the property one minute later and left a tattered bouquet of dandelions at the front step.

Mom sighed and swept up her graying blonde hair into a short, stubby ponytail, "Oh, there's no doubt in my mind that Lizzy would have a boyfriend right now. You know, if she hadn't grown up playing _soccer_ with them in all her free time and _glaring_ at all the other clean-cut ones."

"I made the greatest friends during soccer seasons, Mom, _including_ Charlotte," I muttered, taking an apple from the kitchen counter, "And I didn't _glare_ at boys; that's just my neutral expression."

Jane snorted.

"Yes, Charlotte _Lucas_," Mom murmured, gathering a stack of plates from the cupboard, "I spoke to her mother the other day. Mariah just started residency at University of Pennsylvania, did she tell you? And Charlotte wants to become a _teacher_ of all things."

"She'd be good at it," I mumbled defensively, taking a bite out of my apple, "You've _never_ liked Charlotte." And it was true, she hadn't -- she'd always approved of the eldest daughter. Mariah Lucas might have been at Penn practicing medicine, but she was spry overachiever who really had no room or consideration in her life for anybody else. Charlotte was the overshadowed, modest and thoughtful sister -- but being outshined was an easy task for her when she was up against her older sister.

Mom just denied this and shrugged, "All I'm saying is that she's always been the quiet, not very motivated type. Maybe she even held you back from meeting boys, who knows?"

"Trust me, Mom, that's not the case," Jane said defensively, grinning, "She does anything _but _that."

"I should have a word with her mother," Dad replied dryly, stealing a spoonful of potato salad.

"John, you're really not helping," my mother insisted, swatting him back, "Your daughter is going to end up being some callous, sarcastic old spinster with a dozen cats and a musty apartment, and it's all from _your_ encouragement."

"Lizzy hates cats," Marin Bennet entered the room, unhooking her iPod earbuds and ducking away artfully when her older sisters tried to bombard her with bear hugs.

"Marin, this is the third hair color I've seen on you in six months," I marveled, carefully touching a tendril of her shock of hot pink and orange hair that had escaped from its clip, "Picky much?"

"_Indecisive_," Marin clarified, narrowing her eyes. She was a waif of a girl with a permanent smirk (or scowl) and thickly framed reading glasses she wore mostly to make the impression that she was artsy and bookish (which was only half true). Marin took a seat beside me and set a great, stacked volume aside. I craned my neck to read the spine.

"Dostoyevsky – how sunny."

She rolled her eyes, lip curling downward; I couldn't help but smile incredulously at this. This seventeen year-old handful of kittens has been taking herself too seriously since she was old enough to walk. Her nature conflicted with her hair color, but this could be blamed on your standard teenager's struggle for a spark of originality. And Marin's spark of originality seemed to be Hayley Williams' spark too.

"Anyway, why'd you bring it up, Jane?" Mom asked carefully, refueling our conversation, "Has Lizzy actually snagged herself a man?"

"Tentatively," Jane grinned, and I flicked a bread crumb her way, "There's a boy she works with who's absolutely into her. And she won't see him. Or kiss him."

"_Jane_."

"If you're going to talk about this, I'm leaving the room," Dad warned grimly.

"_You_ should talk, Jane," I narrowed my eyes, "You haven't even told them about _Charlie Bingley_ yet, your groom-to-be."

There was a heavy pause, and then Dad's skeptical inquiry: "What's his social security number?"

"Jane Bennet, _really_?" Mom's face brightened like an overheated Christmas tree, "You're _dating_ somebody!"

Jane buried her face in her hands, unbearably mortified.

"He hasn't asked her out yet," I grinned, delighting in my own sister's deserved embarrassment, "He just calls her three times a day and sends long, insightful emails and observations about nature."

Jane glanced up, beet-red and outraged, "Did you check my _Gmail_?"

"Not intentionally; you logged onto my Macbook and it's already the homepage," I mumbled through a mouthful of apple.

She looked perplexed for a moment, groaning angrily, "I _knew_ I should've borrowed Georgy's laptop."

"Who's Georgy?" Dad asked passively, eyebrow raised.

"Our third housemate; we've told you this, Pop."

"Oh."

"Where'd you meet this boy?" Mom asked quickly, positively glowing, "How old is he? What does he look like?"

"What's his social security number?" Dad repeated.

"I'm not really _dating_ him," Jane blushed, wincing, "I mean, I _like_ him. A lot. But I'm not sure what's going to happen --"

"What's his name again?" Marin asked, brow furrowed, "Chandler Bing?"

"Up top for _Friends_ reference," I murmured, and she obliged with a high-five.

"Charlie Bingley," Jane sighed, running her fingers distractedly through her hair.

Mom paused, "Wait a minute – As in Bingley _Oil_?"

"Steel," she winced, dreading what was to come next.

"Honey, you are _set_."

"_Mom!_" Jane groaned, slapping a hand to her forehead, "God, I hate you, Lizzy. You brought this up on purpose!"

"I love you," I teased.

"You _have_ to invite him over!" Mom insisted, eyes bright, "Jane, honey. I'm so proud."

"Yes, Jane. _Do_ drop out of college, marry him for his money and live the American Dream," Dad confirmed, digging out his abandoned newspaper again.

"Don't listen to your father," Mom flitted over, beaming, and wrapped her daughter in a hug, "My baby!"

"You're diabolical," Marin smirked at me from over her glasses.

"Yeah, pretty much."

Kit and Lydia met us for dinner half an hour later, when gossip had simmered and mediocre potato salad, steamed salmon and cooked asparagus had summoned all Bennets to the kitchen table for the first unified family dinner in months. Lydia could barely bother to glance up amidst her rapid texting, but Kit at least spared an acknowledgment.

"Where were you two?" Jane asked.

"At the library," Lydia beamed, twirling her dark blonde ponytail. She nabbed a bottle of Ginger Ale from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass, pocketing her Blackberry.

"By _library_, they mean the mall," Marin clarified smugly.

"Impressive, Mare," I murmured through a mouthful of salmon.

"I'm fluent," she justified, seeming less-than-thrilled. I felt for her, I really did.

"Why were you at the mall, honey?" Mom asked, less skeptical than I would have preferred her to be. If it were Jane and I who had shamelessly lied to our mother about where we were spending a Saturday afternoon three years ago, we would've gotten bruised and beaten. Psychologically, of course. But our parents have seemed to loosen their restraints with age. Fair? _No_. Expected? Yes.

"There's this boy working the noon shift at Coldstone's," Kit grinned widely, blue eyes bright, "He's _so_ adorable. Baby-faced. We met up with him there -- I really like him."

"He's in _my_ third period class, Kit," Lydia snorted, taking a seat beside her mother, "If there's one girl he's going to ask out, it'll be _me_."

Kit mumbled, "You're going out with Jeremy."

"I'll probably ditch him soon."

Jane sent me a worried little glance from across the table and I couldn't help but snort, causing six pairs of eyes to find mine.

"_What_ Lizzy?" Lydia challenged peevishly. Neither of us were a member of the other's fan club, despite that one point of significance of being related by blood. This girl was the prime example of being able to _love_ somebody without necessarily liking them.

"Nothing at all," I smiled politely, pecking at my salad, "Just that you sound like an itty bitty _skank_."

"Language, Elizabeth," Dad warned, but I knew this was just to curry favor with Mom; a moment later, he concealed a smirk and took a bite out of his salmon.

"I'm just selective about the guys I date, okay?" Lydia rolled her eyes, "God, are _you_ even seeing anybody?"

"What is this, the topic of choice?" Jane asked incredulously, "Where is this coming from?"

"Did you miss the part about this household being 86% _female_, Janey?" Dad asked, smiling ironically.

"Actually, Lizzy," Mom steepled her fingers, taking a sip from her glass, "Jane was telling me your new housemate has an older brother. Did anything happen from there? Or are you serious about this other boy?"

I looked up, aghast. Jane stifled a laugh with the palm of her hand, and I elbowed her.

"Um, definitely _not_," I muttered, "He's just my friend's brother. And in a twist of ass-biting irony, he turned out to be the same editor who rejected my manuscript. So that's a hell _no_, in all respects."

"Your manuscript was rejected?" Dad looked up, wide eyed and mid-chew.

"Dad, I've _told_ you this."

"Oh."

I love my father, really. But you know how some people screen phone calls and claim they listened to the messages? John Bennet has the habit of doing this with actual conversations.

"Is he good-looking?" Mom and Lydia pressed simultaneously. Big shocker there.

"_No_," I mumbled, actually preferring they bring up _George Wickham_ instead. What was this sick fascination with Will Darcy among those close in my life? Before they had even _met_ him?

"He's actually pretty gorgeous," Jane laughed, and I nearly choked on my juice, "Just getting you back, Lizzy."

"_Really_?" Mom raised both eyebrows, leaning forward, "What does he do again?"

"Did you guys miss the part about my _manuscript_?" I asked, shocked. God, my family could be overwhelmingly _dense_ sometimes. It was like speaking to several brick walls at a time.

"Does he know you as the girl whose manuscript he rejected?" Kit asked through a mouthful of potato salad.

"No, he knows her as his sister's rude housemate," Jane smiled widely, "But he's very cute. Tall and dark and rugged. Some stubble, strong jaw. That kind of thing."

"I'm uncomfortable," Dad muttered darkly to nobody in particular.

"Darcy's an _asshole_, okay? End of story."

"Well, there is that," Jane admitted sheepishly.

"Dude, he sounds _hot_," rationalized Lydia; Marin and I wore identical grimaces.

"Lizzy, do me a favor and don't date," Dad warned, chasing a pea around his plate with his fork, "I'm getting tight-chested just listening to this conversation."

I blushed, burying my face into my hands.

"How does it feel to have the spotlight, Thing #2?" Jane trapped me in a headlock, kissing my cheek, "Isn't payback sweet?"

"I'll never bring up Charlie again," I swore, feeling a headache coming on.

"_My_ pet name, Thing #1," Dad narrowed his eyes at Jane, "No touching."

* * *

The next day, I was buried under textbooks, research, and a thesis paper on stem cell research. And salvaging my sanity was Georgy, thankfully. She had practically built a fortress out of the papers and alternative assignments for the ones she had missed during the last couple of weeks. And she was pleasant company enough, especially since Jane had left around five in the evening for a _date _(insert your relieved eye-roll here) with Charlie Bingley.

_"Not a date," Jane had insisted, blushing._

_"Yes well, your shade of eyeshadow seems to think otherwise."_

Georgy decided to take a fifteen minute break from her studying and surf channels, though not very thrilled with the results, "Hey, do we have HBO?"

"Do you have the _money_ for HBO?" I asked her, highlighting a passage.

"_Personally_, I don't," Georgy smiled widely, her blue eyes narrowing.

"If you ask your brother," I murmured, turning a page, "I will hurt you in creative and interesting ways."

"You're a sweetheart, Lizzy," Georgy said dryly, inspecting a strand of her dark hair.

"You already know I love you, so my threats are always empty," I justified, grinning, "I mean seriously. _Who's _safe guarding your secrets here? It couldn't be _Lizzy_ _Bennet_."

"Gotchya," Georgy winced, tracing circles on the couch, "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about, Lizzy."

I looked up, "Please don't tell me you got a second job."

"_No_," she laughed, surprised, "God, no. It's just that I might have, sort of, _kind_ of invited Will over for a quick visit." This was all shared in a rushed exhalation and she winced afterward for good measure.

I snapped my textbook shut and rose to my feet, "You know, I think now's a good time to go for that grocery run I've been planning all weekend."

She leaped up and stopped me, a hand on my wrist, "Look, I _know_ you two clash. But he's flying back to North Carolina tonight and I told him he could stop by. He won't be over for too long; I just don't want to see you leave the house on my behalf."

"Technically, it'd be _his_ behalf," I mumbled hotly. But Georgy simply jutted out her lower lip, and I snorted, "Georgiana Darcy, I can't believe you're trying to pull a lip quiver here. You're nowhere _near_ that cute."

"Liar."

I sulked, "I hate you."

There was one absolutely karmic, utterly astounding, Insert-Angelic-Choir-Here incident that arose from Will Darcy's visit. And it happened to be his rental car completely fizzling just down the street. Because car batteries are a bitch. I was perfectly inclined to sit on my ass, continue studying, and let the Darcys handle this. In fact, Will Darcy probably wouldn't end up setting one _foot_ inside this house. Can we say 'Bonus Point'? Because I can.

But the pesky thing about consciences is that you can't fully tune them out. Besides, _I_ was the only one who knew her way around the garage. And more importantly, her way around the bright orange emergency tool kit _inside_ the garage; which, lo and behold, included scarcely used jumper cables. So after several expletives, and a quick snatching of supplies, I gunned up Charlotte's Pinto (mine for the weekend), and met the Darcys at the corner of Doe Run down the street.

* * *

Will Darcy watched in frustration as Elizabeth Bennet pulled up to the curb in a bruised and battered Ford, nearly falling apart at the seams. In fact, it seemed as if the grill would clatter to the asphalt at any given moment. He raised an eyebrow at Georgy, who ignored this in favor of leading Lizzy snugly to the corner so that she was in an ideal position in front of the Lincoln's open hood. And then she clambered out, cables in her grasp.

The first thing he noticed about Lizzy was that her hair was down; it might have evened softened her expression if she wasn't scowling. Why was she scowling? The second was that she was completely barefoot. And then he couldn't stop himself from muttering, "What, no shoes?"

"Nope," she popped the word off of her lips, craning over the engine, "I'm going for a Frodo Baggins kind of look today." She didn't even waste time to look at him, and half of her body disappeared beneath the hood of the vehicle.

Georgy laughed, scratching her head, "Sorry, what?"

"_Lord of the Rings_," Will mumbled, coming to Lizzy's side, "Look, thank you. But I can use jumper cables."

"Wait, let me make sure your battery's actually dead," she said helpfully, palm outstretched, "Give me the keys. I'll check the wipers and the headlights. It might just be your starter."

"It's not," Darcy insisted, looking at her carefully.

"Give me the _keys_."

And then there was no arguing. He dropped them into her palm and waited patiently by the hood as she got settled inside. At the very last moment, he thought he saw something questionable with the engine and leaned forward. This unluckily happened at the same time that Lizzy decided to experiment with the horn. Darcy flinched, clamped his ears and _slammed_ his head on the hood.

"_Oh!_" Georgy yelped, rushing forward.

"Sorry!" Elizabeth called out cheerily from the driver's side, "I heard a _bang_."

"Oh, that was just my _crushed skull_," Darcy seethed, grasping at his head, "Son of a _bitch_."

Lizzy joined them shortly, arms crossed over her chest, "Well, the good news is that your battery's probably fine. Wipers and you know, _horn_ work well," she pursed her lips, possibly to conceal a smile, "Your ignition makes a strange clicking noise though, so it's probably the starting motor. Maybe a stuck gear."

"I didn't know you were a mechanic," Darcy mumbled through a throbbing headache, sitting down carefully at the curb, "Jesus Christ, this _hurts_."

Lizzy sighed, sweeping a hand through her hair absently, "I should go get you some ice."

"I'm on it -- I'll call Triple A too," Georgy insisted, starting back towards the house; she jogged down the steep street and disappeared from view.

Darcy sighed, cradled his head, and felt a presence sit beside him.

"How's the head?" Lizzy Bennet chirped a little too brightly.

"I'll tell you when I regain consciousness," Darcy muttered, peeved.

"Oh shut _up_," she snorted, and to his surprise, she _shoved_ him. He looked over at her incredulously, but she was busy trying to unknot the ends of her long hair. He caught the scent of her shampoo and glanced down, distracted for a moment.

"She should be here soon," Lizzy muttered under her breath, hugging her knees.

"How do you know so much about cars?" Darcy found himself asking her.

She looked back toward him, amused, "Oh _that_? Well, I used to do sexual favors as a young teenager down at Jiffy Lube to get help with my car. I learned quite a lot, if you know what I mean."

Darcy blinked twice and opened his mouth.

Lizzy rolled her eyes, "My _dad _taught me the summer of my sixteenth birthday during a botched road trip to Ocean City. Come _on_, Darcy, take a joke."

"You just said it so seriously."

"Yes, but align some math here," she raised an eyebrow, "I'm not some slut."

He shuffled his feet, uncomfortable, and she sensed it.

"_So_," Elizabeth started cheerily, "Fancy seeing _you _at Starbucks the other day. Did you come to stalk me?"

Darcy scowled, sitting upright at the accusation -- which unfortunately made his head throb all the more, so he slumped his shoulders.

"Don't worry, I'm just being a jackass," she admitted nonchalantly, tracing circles on the sidewalk, "You told me Charlie dragged you."

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He cast her a sidelong glance, and cleared his throat, "You, um -- You work with George Wickham."

"This is true," she said carefully, brown eyes watching him.

"Fascinating," he muttered darkly, kicking some dirt with his foot. He was suddenly having a hard time grinding out sentences.

"_I'd_ say so," Lizzy rose, stretching her legs. She was doing an excellent job of avoiding his eyes when she said, ever-so-casually, "It seems we share a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Darcy."

And then he couldn't account for the way his fists clenched a fraction tighter. Lizzy noticed the slight twitch of the muscle in his jaw, and she leaned against the Navigator with curious observation.

"Did I strike a nerve?" she asked coolly.

"I don't really think that's any of your business," he responded with an equal amount of warmth.

"I see," Lizzy nodded her head mockingly, chewing on her lower lip in thought, "This information isn't disclosed to the general public, then?"

"What, is this a _joke _to you?" Darcy asked her carefully, "What did Wickham tell you?"

"Oh, we're on a last name basis, are we?" she smiled brightly, "That's all warm and fuzzy."

"Elizabeth-- "

"Look," she held up both hands, her jaw tight, "I don't want to talk about this. It isn't even _my _situation to talk about, okay? Let's just drop it."

"I want to know what he told you," Darcy said, and the intensity of his gaze made her glance away self-consciously for a moment.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, and Darcy rose to his feet.

"What, is this is a _height _thing?" she looked up at him with disbelief, "Will Darcy clears off at six foot and suddenly he's _intimidating_? I'm not telling you either way, pal; put your big boy pants on and get over it."

But for a minute, she _was _intimidated. It was something about the way he was looking at her. _Sure_, she had expected him to be pissed off. But there was something deeper there that made her question what George Wickham had told her for about a millisecond -- before she remembered who it was she was speaking to, and sobered.

"I got the ice!" Georgy suddenly barreled up the street, startling them both. She reached them and halted mid-step, frowning and confused, "What happened?"

"Nothing," Darcy muttered, taking the ice from her. Lizzy looked away.


	12. An Inconvenient Truth or Two

Disclaimer: I don't own _Pride and Prejudice_. I think I would wet myself if I did. Multiple times over. I'm just being honest here; you can cringe as much as you want.

* * *

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twelve -- _An Inconvenient Truth or Two_)

"Let me get this straight," Charles Bingley said carefully, eyeing his rear view mirror for a split second, "Your rental's _starter_ is fucked up. The American Automobile Association towed the Navigator away; it's safely in Hertz's hands now. And _I'm _the poor schmuck dragging your angry Yankee ass to the airport."

"Did you miss the part about my angry Yankee ass being sorry for cutting your date with Jane Bennet thirty minutes short?" Darcy asked, experimenting with the Prius' seat adjustment, "Because I think I threw it in my explanation three times."

"But see, you being apologetic is something that can't be emphasized enough, if you ask me," Charlie answered dryly, smirking as he weaved into another lane, "It's okay, by the way. We probably just missed dessert at Piccolo Trattoria."

"I'm going to go on ahead and pretend I know what that is. I might even nod, if you want."

"It's a restaurant. And wow, aren't _you_ tense, Darce?" Charlie laughed, glancing at him skeptically, "Are these pre-flight jitters? Maybe you need a drink."

"No, it's nothing like that," Darcy muttered, rubbing his temples. Though at this point, he certainly wasn't against scrounging for a beer. It was _astounding_ how his headache still seemed to be present and pounding, no less. It was like a permanent reminder of the girl who had given it to him in the first place. By force.

"Is this something you're going to explain or am I wasting my own time here?" Charlie cut to the chase; he knew his way around dissecting conversations with Will Darcy after years of practice.

"The latter, definitely," Darcy leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He didn't have the patience to even _think _about Elizabeth Bennet, let alone tell Charlie what had happened a few hours earlier.

"Good, now I have something I'd like to ask you," his best friend admitted, smiling brightly, "It's something you're going to ridicule me about, and you might even question my sanity, but I have to ask. Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Only on Tuesdays," Darcy snorted, looking up; he straightened at Charlie's incredibly serious expression, "Oh God, Charlie _no_. Please don't say what I think you're going to say."

"I can't help myself," he shrugged feebly, positively grinning, "Will, I seriously think I am. Or at least, love at first _date_. I'm crazy about this girl; I'm absolutely crazy about Jane."

"I can count the number of your relationships that have started this way on _both hands_, Charlie," Darcy frowned, holding up his fingers, "That alone should say something."

"You're just the eternal pessimist, Will, what do _you_ know about love?" Charlie snorted, sparing him a sidelong glance, "Except for the occasional fling or two and that three-month stint with Regina Whatsherface our sophomore year."

"_Rebecca_," Darcy corrected, frowning slightly, "I think. And don't change the subject. You're probably just attracted to Jane. She's smiley, polite and pretty. It makes sense that you would look at her like something you won at a slot machine."

"I'm not going to even bother listing the number of things derogatory about that statement," Charlie rolled his eyes, "And she's not like the others. God, she's just so _great_. So sweet and good-hearted. I've never met anyone like her."

"Is she into you?"

"I hope so," Charlie laughed. A hint of skepticism crossed his face for about a second, but he glanced up and nodded. She _had_ to be.

"That's obviously a solid basis for entering a relationship," Darcy muttered dryly, turning towards the window, "She just seems kind of distant, Charlie. Don't get so attached that you leave yourself susceptible to getting dicked over."

"Thanks, Ann Landers; do I turn to you for legal advice too?" Charlie pressed, his tone bordering on annoyed.

Will smiled ironically, "Fuck you."

"You know, forget I asked," Charlie said, drumming his fingers on the steering well, "I might be attracted to her, but there's definitely something more. I can feel it."

"Maybe you just need to get some."

Charlie rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore this, "I'm probably going to invite the Bennets over for Thanksgiving next month."

Darcy whipped his head back, blue eyes wide, "Oh God, _please_ don't. I'm begging you."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, "Hey, if _you_ want to miss it, do whatever you feel like. I mean, my mum might miss you, but she'll be in St. Barts with my father for a few weeks anyway," he paused for a few seconds, "Unless this is strictly limited to your disapproval of the Bennets. Which is just _ridiculous_, Will."

"Not necessarily the Bennets, collectively," Darcy muttered, rubbing the side of his face wearily, "Just one of them."

At this, Charlie's smile widened, "And of course you mean the charismatic _Elizabeth _Bennet."

"Charismatic is a bit of a glazed-over word, isn't it?" Darcy said quickly, "You have to dig up something better; something synonymous with _aggravating_."

"Well, I've never seen somebody talk to you the way she does," Charlie laughed, switching on his turn signal, "She seems like a very outspoken, free-spirited girl."

"She seems like a pain in the _ass_, is what she seems like," Darcy muttered, slumping in his seat, "God, I had such an annoying argument with her. She thinks – God, she _actually_ thinks that – Fuck it, I don't even know what she thinks. I can't hold a conversation with her." The issue of Wickham still hung in the air, and it made him unbelievably anxious.

"I'm confused," Charlie glanced at him quickly.

"Yeah, me too."

"What did you argue about?" Charlie asked, curious, "Did you provoke her or something?"

"I can't even ex_plain_ it. She's just so stubborn, Charlie," Darcy said, completely exasperated, "And God, she just has to back-talk and criticize everything. _Everything_. I've never been so frustrated with a person in my life, I guarantee you. I just about popped an artery back there." Darcy scowled and glanced back out the window, contemplative. He got a clear, mental image then; of her glaring up at him, face slightly flushed from their argument, eyes bright and patronizing.

Charlie watched him with amusement, perfectly aware that his friend resembled a petulant child with his arms crossed at the chest, glowering. Something about this girl was really getting to him. They slowed to a red light, and he faced Will a little more clearly, scratching his head, "I'm going to say something in a second, and you have to promise not to leap across your seat and strangle me. Can you do that?"

Darcy just looked skeptical.

"You have to realize that this is the third time in a _week _that you've brought up Lizzy Bennet," Charlie paused for moment's consideration, "And I'm not personally suggesting anything yet. But you're probably the only one this bothered by Lizzy._ I_ think she's charming. So does Georgy. I mean, there's Carolyn's disapproval, but her opinion's about as fascinating and vital as a wooden post."

"She just pisses me off, Charlie," Darcy mumbled, pressing his hands into his eyes.

"She makes you question yourself," Charlie guessed, slipping back into traffic, "And _that_ pisses you off."

And he knew he was right. "I kind of hate you; did I ever tell you that?" Darcy asked.

"Multiple times," Charlie smiled, looking back at the road, "Hey listen, maybe you're secretly attracted to her and you haven't realized it yet."

"That's the most _ridiculous_--"

"Is it though?" he looked over, shrugging, "Just think about it for a second. She's very cute. And quick-witted._ And_ she's the first person to openly carp on you in ages. I think you're definitely _intrigued_, at the very least. Why wouldn't you be?"

"Maybe we should just stop talking," Darcy insisted grimly, closing his eyes, "Because I have a migraine the size of a third world country and I don't feel like chatting about the Bennets anymore, if that's okay with you."

"Fair enough," Charlie smiled knowingly, "Thanksgiving still stands though. So suck it up, okay? Thanks a bunch."

* * *

It's of a universal opinion that the standard method of catching up between women usually incorporates lunch and a movie. I'd like to think that Charlotte, Jane and I could _avoid _this stereotypical pitfall. But not many people are as impervious as they say they are when it comes to some newly released Hugh Grant chick flick and the prospect of an afternoon stuffing your face at Bertucci's. We were suckered in. By bruschetta and accents, respectively.

"I can't think of the last time I hung out like this," mumbled Charlotte, slurping an Icee as we wandered through the mall after the film had ended, "Between classes and juggling work, I'm _exhausted_." The truth was, we all were. Jane was the only one occasionally seeking out personal time, in the form of scattered little dates with Charlie Bingley. In which she'd come back positively blushing, and beaming and other alliterative adjectives that might normally make one want to throw up if this were anybody but Jane. But it _was _Jane, so you were helplessly programmed to smile and think it all adorable. Which it was.

"Just wait, we'll be launched into finals prep right after Thanksgiving," my sister sympathized, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Actually, _you _should be a seasoned pro by now. It's me and Lizzy who'll be pulling that deer-in-headlights kind of thing."

"Freshmen," Charlotte teased, clicking her tongue, "Hey, if you two didn't have one of those borderline summer birthdays, you would be sophomores now. I hate that parents have that power to override the system."

"August 31st, always the oldest in our grade," Jane smiled, stealing a sip of Charlotte's artificially flavored _goo_, "Don't worry about us, though. We'll catch up with you eventually. A lot of coffee will be needed along the way, but we'll get there."

"In one piece, hopefully," Charlotte smiled, and then turned to me, "Mutey thinks so too. Why so silent, Eliza?"

"Are you calling me Eliza to make me angry and drag me into the conversation against my will?" I asked, watching ahead as a little boy bought a balloon from a sullen, teenaged mall vendor. Truth be told, I was just tired. The chick flick had been a bit of an unexpected tear jerker, and leftover school stress from the week before was making me a little irritable. Not that I would pass up the opportunity to be cryptic with them or anything.

"Who says we want you in this conversation?" Charlotte teased, grinning, "Maybe it's exclusive."

"That's obviously why you invited me, right? To exclude me. You're hilarious."

"That's the thing about our Lizzy; she _thinks _she's good at reading people," Charlotte whispered to Jane obviously, "In reality, I think she's full of shit."

"In reality, _she _can still hear you and you know she can," I murmured, flicking her upside the head.

Jane grinned, coming to walk by my side, "She's just sleepy and romantically repressed, Charlotte. And Lizzy, don't look at me like you aren't. I happen to know from a trusted source that you've been avoiding George Wickham like the plague."

"Guess who has two thumbs and _is _the trusted source in question?" Charlotte pointed at herself, "Hey there."

I rolled my eyes, "I'm not _avoiding _George. It's just awkward as hell. Mainly because we're both interested but I'm not ready for anything to happen yet. It's kind of like being stuck in emotional limbo."

Emotional, extremely _awkward _limbo. And it was. Every time I would look at him, I could feel my face heating up. We didn't have playful, friendly conversations at work anymore. Just discreet little looks, and flirty smiles from him, and distinct _I'm-going-to-ignore-you-now_ methods of body language from yours truly. It wasn't dating and it wasn't friendship. It was a muddled, stranded version of the two that made me a little lightheaded and unsure of myself. God, I hate being a girl sometimes.

"Just go out with him," Jane said simply, as if it were the most natural decision. And advice from Jane has always been so easy and lacking in conflict. She drew a world where no unfavorable consequences were even thought of, and I envied her for this perspective of life.

"Yeah Lizzy, he's a sweet guy," Charlotte came to her side, encouraging as ever, "A little too charming for his own good? Uh, _yeah_. But who says you have to get serious? Nobody's getting married. Let go and live a little. He _likes _you. A lot." And this was a valid argument too. Who wanted to be so serious at nineteen years of age? But still, there was something nagging on my mind.

"The thing is," I stopped, trying to make sense of it in my own head, "I kind of don't _want _to. As strange as that sounds. Even though I'm interested in him and everything, I don't want things to get weird. And part of me is really worried that we won't click as something other than friends. And the other part of me is really just unwilling to try it out. I don't know if that's your textbook definition of a commitment phobe or someone who's just really, _really _hesitant."

"See, there's a benefit to being non-friends first," Jane found herself saying, smiling so brightly Charlotte kind of looked as if she wanted to hit her. After a second, Jane cleared her throat, "Sorry. I know I'm an ass because I'm going out with a great guy not many people are so lucky to find. I'll make it a point to stop talking about him eventually, I promise." She looked solemn for about three seconds, and then an incorrigible grin blossomed on her face. Because she couldn't exactly help herself.

"I'll always be bitterly jealous, but don't apologize," Charlotte reasoned, smiling crookedly, "More power to you for not being the miserable and gloomy one of the bunch."

"Jane's never miserable," I smiled.

"I've been _upset_," my sister reasoned, looking out ahead of us, "But I figure misery's only for people who have a _reason _to be, you know? What right do I have? I live a charmed life. Did you know that people in --"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Charlotte moaned, covering her ears, "Mother Theresa, make it _stop_." Jane (rightfully) glared in response and rolled her eyes. But even she couldn't resist smirking at herself. Charlotte often painted the picture of my twin being a tad too self-righteous among us mere mortals, and it was expected by now.

"Leave Jane alone," I laughed, shoving Charlotte playfully, "She's _happy_. And Charlie really is a wonderful guy."

"He's inviting us for Thanksgiving, did I tell you?" Jane suddenly swerved on her heel, positively beaming, "At his parents' house."

"_All _of us?" I balked, stopping in the center of the mall. I tried to rally up numbers in my mind, failing for a second or two.

"Even Charlotte," Jane smirked at the redhead, "It took some begging to convince him you weren't psychotic, Char, but you're in."

"Oh _thanks_," Charlotte laughed, rolling her eyes, "Still, that's almost absurdly nice. Much appreciated. So I guess you're meeting his parents?"

This phrase usually brings on a slight twinge of panic, but Jane seemed pretty composed. After a moment, we found out why: "No, his parents won't be home. Apparently they take this extended holiday in the Caribbean every Thanksgiving on down to New Years'. They've been doing it for years. Charlie jokes that his mother always comes back pregnant."

"That's disgusting," I pointed out.

"I think he was joking," Jane winced, "In poor taste."

Well, they can't all be handsome, generous, sincere, wealthy _and _effortlessly funny. Something has to give.

"Anyway, it leaves their house in upstate New York completely free. And I've seen photos on his computer. It's ridiculous looking," Jane shook her head as we slowed to a stop by a cart, "It's this secluded, expansive property and it's absolutely breathtaking."

"Do you mean ridiculous as in fun-house ridiculous?" I teased, inspecting a row of cashmere scarves, "House of Mirrors, creepy-ass _clowns _kind of thing?"

"No, more along the lines of ten bedrooms, winding gardens and more acres of land than I can _count _ridiculous," Jane clarified, smiling in wonderment, "Just saying. It's in this private borough called Netherfield Park."

"Hey, I personally _love _living in a one bedroom walk-up," Charlotte murmured, unhooking a bracelet from one of the shelves, "Close quarters make me more reflective and more align with my inner chi. It's Bingley's loss in this case."

"I think we've located the bitter one in the bunch," I grinned at Jane, draping a turquoise scarf loosely around Charlotte's neck.

She untangled it and grinned at me, folding the fabric, "Lizzy, you could give me a run for my money, and you know it."

"I'm not _bitter_, I'm a realist," I said pointedly, pausing for a second, "Well, and a romantic. So these might be two conflicting ideals."

"Wow, you're a romantic realist. Give it up for Elizabeth Bennet, the girl who doesn't understand herself," Charlotte muttered, smiling slyly at me.

"Shut up; I was having a crisis of identity for a second there," I elbowed her.

"Well ex_cuse_ me, Jason Bourne."

"Lovely, guys. Can I continue?" Jane asked sharply, rolling her eyes." I know Georgy's going to be at Charlie's for Thanksgiving; also his sisters, Carolyn and Lyssa. So basically, just let me know if I can RSPV for you both, and if you want to bring _dates_," she looked at me purposefully, a smile pulling at her mouth.

"I could invite George," I said impulsively, actually delighting in the idea for a good moment or two. I would be throwing caution to the wind while simultaneously experiencing sadistic delight in forcing the casual Mr. Wickham into a dress shirt and slacks. But this all simmered within a few seconds, and I swore upon realization, "Oh fuck, _Georgy _will be there. Which means Will Darcy will be there." Which meant I was screwed.

Will Darcy was a name I had successfully avoided thinking about for a solid couple of weeks, starting at the exact moment that I watched Charlie's Prius disappear into the distance that Sunday evening, with an irritating headache and the singular thought of "Good riddance" on my mind. It had all seemed ideal. Until now.

Jane considered this for a second, "Well, he'll probably be there. Will _is _Charlie's best friend." But then her expression shifted, understanding my trepidation. I had told Jane last week about George Wickham's story. She still didn't have as much faith in it as I did, but I pegged this to not personally knowing George as well. Charlotte on the other hand, was a pretty firm believer. Or else, she seemed to be.

"I doubt George will care," Charlotte murmured, inspecting a price tag, "And neither should _you_, by the way. If anything, it'll grate on Will Darcy a bit. But then again, I don't think you're out to salvage his tender feelings or anything."

"No, definitely _not. _He can storm out if he wants, I don't give a shit," I snorted, rubbing the back of my neck, "And I don't think Charlie knows anything about George and Darcy, so he'll probably be open to me taking a plus one."

"He's actually encouraging it," Jane shrugged, "It's why I brought up the date thing. He believes in crowded tables and full houses on Thanksgiving."

"That's cute," Charlotte smiled.

"But Lizzy," Jane turned to me, blue eyes worried, "Maybe this whole thing with George and Darcy is a bit overblown, don't you think? I know I've said this before. I'm not _doubting _that George was wronged, but you don't know what kind of gaps self-pity could create in a person's story. Are we really willing to believe Will was capable of this? Think of his _sister_."

"Georgy and Will aren't the same person. And judging by past conversations and experiences, Janey?" I glanced at her, eyebrows raised, "I'd have to say _yes, _he's capable of it. George had him pegged to a tee in his description. Only more detailed, but he was dead-on. You can't have such good faith in _every_body, Jane. Supporting both of them is kind of like cheering on the Philadelphia Eagles _and _the Dallas Cowboys. It's not going to work."

"Is Will Darcy a Cowboy in your analogy?" Charlotte asked, taking the turquoise scarf off of its shelf again, "Because I'm actually closeted fan."

"This is why our city will never embrace you, Charlotte Lucas."

"Look, maybe you're right," said Jane, pulling me back into the more important issue at hand, "I'm just trying to give Will the benefit of the doubt here."

And this was probably what marked my sister from other people. She was genuinely open-hearted, and most of us were left gawking in her presence simply thinking that ribbons should be awarded for this particular brand of kindness. Unfortunately, it sometimes bordered on naive.

"Honestly? He doesn't even deserve it, Jane."

* * *

The weeks that passed were dull in the sense of being chock-full of uninteresting things. Classes mainly, and some juggling work shifts. A couple times, Jane and Charlie would come visit me, and Charlotte would allow me to take short breaks to speak with them. Such a time came on a rainy, Friday evening two hours before closing; we had gathered at the corner table by the magazine shelves, a shady table affectionately dubbed "The Nook". Charlie's hand was laced in Jane's. And this reduced onlookers like yours truly to quivering puddles of goo with stupid, dreamy smiles plastered on their faces.

"Do you get free coffee?" Charlie asked, "Just wondering."

"Are you _asking _for some, Charles Bingley?" I smiled, considering this, "Actually, I have some at my place I can give to you. Your apartment is sorely lacking. And the answer is yes. Either a pound of beans a week or a box of tea. But I'm personally not a fan of tea. Except Earl Grey."

Jane turned to Charlie, "Sorry about that. My sister has this rare, infectious disease where she rambles herself in circles. It's usually used to avoid concrete answers or when she's had too much caffeine herself."

"I think I caught on to that, yeah," Charlie grinned.

"Yeah, I might have downed a cappuccino," I smiled guiltily, "Or you know, _two_."

"I hate coffee," Jane sighed, and Charlie gave her a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "Well, I do," she laughed, "I'm more for peppermint teas and hot chocolate."

"Wow, that's got to be fate," I joked, "There's nothing in Charlie's apartment but herbal teas."

"Okay _fine_, I'll buy some ground coffee," he muttered sharply, "Way to tear into a guy."

"He's English, Lizzy, let him enjoy his tea."

"I love stereotypes, thanks Jane," Charlie beamed, kissing her on the cheek quickly. She looked down and blushed, all smiles.

"Okay _stop _it, guys. I'm becoming tolerant of mush, and I don't like it," I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Speaking of mush, I kind of have to tell you something," Jane suddenly said, looking more serious than I would've liked, "And you're not really going to like it." At this, she took a glance at the counter behind us, found Brenda and Charlotte working side by side, and looked back at me, "George Wickham isn't here, is he?"

"No, he's working another shift," I said, confused, "Why?"

"I took the address you left me and went down to Forty-Three Steps to see Georgy play," Jane explained, knotting her hands together, "First off, she's absolutely wonderful. Earns very good tips. I think she should be working concerts or something."

"She's always played brilliantly," Charlie smiled, and then grew a tad apprehensive when we were both silent, "You know what, I'll go get some hot chocolate." And at that, he left us to our privacy. He's really such a good guy. For a second I felt sorry.

"Why did you ask about George though?" I asked quietly.

"Well, he was _there_, Lizzy," she paused, "That's his other job. Occasionally he waits tables, and sometimes he plays something out on his own guitar. And for a while, I kind of sat without Georgy knowing I was there yet, so I saw some things she probably would've kept in check otherwise."

"Like what?" I murmured.

"Well, they were really flirty," Jane said, "And not teasing or anything. But she was leaning into George, and he was smiling, playing with her hair and tickling her. I mean to say that they seemed _really _into each other. And you know I'm not one to be judgmental, but Lizzy, I really thought you had to know."

And suddenly the numbers aligned themselves and I knew that George was the guy my housemate had been eager to work with on Friday nights. And I felt this queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It had less to do with the fact that I harbored an interest in George, and more to do with the matter of their age difference, and the fact that he held Georgy's brother in bitter contempt, and she didn't even know what had happened. And then something reached me I didn't even want to think about.

"He _has _to know that she's Will's sister," I mumbled, raking a hand through my hair, "They work together; he must know her full name. He's probably heard Darcy speak about her back in college. God Jane, you don't think he could be _using _her, do you? To get back at Darcy?"

"I think there's a reason both of us are entertaining this idea," she told me, blue eyes serious.

"Oh _fuck_," I muttered, feeling nauseated. I didn't even want to think that he _could_. But I had to strip away my bias about George temporarily. It wasn't out of any need to protect Will Darcy. This barely even crossed my mind. But Georgy was my friend, and she didn't deserve to be yanked around from somebody's separate agenda. If that was even the case. Another part of me instantly stamped this theory out into the dust. He would _never _do this. It was vindictive and manipulative; he would never.

I voiced my opinion to Jane.

"Lizzy," she reached across and took my hand, "Look at this objectively for a second, okay? If you barely knew George Wickham, and this were somebody _else _who had the potential of manipulating our housemate like this. What would you think about it then?"

Consciences in human form like Jane should probably not be ignored. Sometimes she's naive but sometimes you can _feel _that she's right. I just wasn't a proud supporter of what seemed to be the truth. I buried my face into my hands, groaning, "Maybe it was a _different _guy. I mean George and _Georgy_? That pairing of names shouldn't even exist, Jane. It's like a violation of biological _law_, for God's sake."

Jane smiled sadly, and patted my hand.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey all! Happy New Year and such. Just wanted to say that I won't be updating for some time. Probably about a month, maybe a couple at the most. I've just got a lot of things launching into full-speed in my life right now, so some priorities have to be shifted. Thanks in advance for understanding! (I hope) And as always, I can't thank you enough for all the kind thoughts and support!

_Edit_ (1/3/09): Starbucks technicality corrected in a tiny bit of the dialogue. Thanks, Quiz.


	13. Bones to Pick

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Thirteen -- _Bones to Pick_)

Right around that cozy slice of space between late October and early November, I always manage to get this lingering cold that feasts on school related stress and delayed payment of heating bills. This year, the cold was replaced with fresh, jittering anxiety. _Why_ was I anxious? The answer to this question has three separate variables.

1. I had been avoiding the issue of George Wickham for weeks. It was a classic case of putting something off until it drove you crazy.

2. In a twist of unnerving fate, Bill Collins came creeping back into our lives.

3. Class stress? Okay, _fine_.

The third one isn't really valid. Everyone has that stress. I like things grouped in threes. I'm a little Adrian Monkish that way. It completes my cycle of whinedom, which I just deemed an actual word.

Jane had been goading me for weeks about how I would approach Georgy about Wickham. The thing was, it wasn't my place to say anything. She had no idea who George really was, and introducing _that_ subject matter would drop a bombshell I had no right in dropping. And talking to _George_ about it was tricky because I was afraid of how he would take it. I didn't want him to misinterpret my protectiveness for my housemate as some ridiculous flare of jealousy on my part.

"Why can't I just pretend that nothing's going on, Jane?" I had asked one morning, moping around, "I'll pretend you never told me this and let the chips fall where they may."

"Your conscience probably won't let you," she pointed out, cradling a cup of coffee, "And yeah, I guess you could consider me your conscience if you're missing yours or something."

I still didn't even prod at the issue for another couple of days. Within that time, Billy - excuse me, _William_, as he now prefers - came thundering back into our lives as distraction enough; a boy I had grown up with in Longbourn County.

If you ask me now, I'm not sure why this happened. All I could tell you about Billy Collins is that I had known him for nine, _endless_ years before his parents separated and he moved to Palm Springs with his mother. Before that, we had met in Kindergarten. He wasn't the charming class clown who haphazardly ate glue. He was the sniffling, constantly berating little bastard who would lean across your desk to remark on your atrocious dotting of letters. Or that your map coloring skills, to paraphrase, sucked ass.

I remember in middle school up to freshman year, he had a monstrous, Texas sized, I-will-_marry_-you obsession with Jane. To such a point where I once caught him watching her through the tree on our lawn with a plastic set of binoculars. I hit him with a whiffle bat and chased him across the yard, and my mother had been completely dense about it. _Why don't you invite him inside, Lizzy? He seems like such a sweetheart! _Yeah, thanks.

Anyway, I hadn't seen the little jackass for a solid chunk of years before I came to visit Charlotte on Sunday afternoon to return her car. I had just parked and was clambering out when I saw a man talking animatedly to her at the front steps of the apartment building. He was an inch taller than her, was dressed entirely too posh, and was sneering at the wobbling bits of foundation underneath the stoop that had to be fixed up.

I hadn't recognized him until I called out to Charlotte and he spun around to face me. And then it hit me like some someone's rotten cooking. He had _changed_ of course, but the expression was exactly the same. His shoulders had broadened a little, and acne also had a habit of clearing up past the age of thirteen. Also, he had strange blonde highlights and an ill-placed soul patch that kind of looked like a small animal had settled under his lower lip and died there.

"_Lizzy!_" Charlotte beamed, waving. She was blushing and trying to conceal embarrassment, but she skirted past Collins (who I was sure, through my horror, _was_ Collins) and hugged me. I must have looked really bewildered because her eyes widened and she cleared her throat, "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

"Elizabeth Bennet," Collins suddenly said, descending the steps too carefully, "I thought I recognized you. Six years and you haven't changed one bit. You're even still wearing ratty, ripped jeans."

"Billy Collins," I muttered, feeling nauseated, "Look what the cat coughed up."

"I go by _William_ now," he straightened the lapels of his dinner jacket, smiling sunnily to Charlotte, "It sounds less juvenile."

"If you want to seem less juvenile, I think the height thing is playing against you." I turned to Charlotte, ignoring his glare, "Look, I need to talk to you. If you're busy, call me up. The Pinto's by the curb."

"I was just leaving," Collins insisted. He then took Charlotte's hand and kissed her on the cheek, making sure to send a purposeful look my way. I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest.

When he left (and several "What the _fuck_?" related expletives were shared), Charlotte sat at the front steps and began a timid explanation. First off, where the hell had he come from? Palm Springs, no-show?

"His mother died three years ago and he moved to Manhattan to be with his godmother," Charlotte explained at length, "One of the economics professors at Hertfordshire is his godmother's good friend, so he came by around five weeks ago to spend time here, and I met him around campus."

"God, that's scary." George Wickham's words reverberated in my head. _Small fucking world_, indeed. "And you actually struck up a conversation?"

"Lizzy, you're horrible," Charlotte laughed, "He's a nice guy. A little pretentious, _fine_, but actually pretty warm when you get to know him," she ignored my stare and straightened self-righteously, "Anyway, we got to talking. His godmother's actually Catherine de Bourgh, can you _believe_ that?"

"Is this an up and coming actress I should be aware of?" It wasn't ringing any bells.

"_No_," she took my hand excitedly, "You know the private de Bourgh school in Manhattan? People have _killed_ to get student teaching positions there, Lizzy. Once I mentioned to Bill that I'm trying to get a teaching degree --"

"Charlotte," I pulled my hand back, outraged, "that's called _using_ somebody."

"No it isn't," she said, brushing her hair back, "It's called utilizing certain opportunities. That uh, might have sprung up from spur-of-the-moment friendships!" She cast a quick, mega-watt grin.

"I guess you took your bullshit pill this morning; I'm 99.9% sure that friendship is not on _his_ mind. You're doing this to get a good connection and score an interview, and don't insult me by saying otherwise, for God's sake."

"Listen, if _that_ happens, then great. In any case, I'm just enjoying his company. I know I heard the horror stories from you and Jane. Well actually, Jane wasn't as melodramatic. But he's a sweet guy, Lizzy. You don't even know him," Charlotte insisted, and I was kind of angry that she was taking this so lightly. It was so -

_Shallow_. That's what it was. Not like her.

"I know he's a _creeper_," I muttered, pulling a thread from one of the holes in my jeans, "Congratulations then. Let me know how your prestigious little interview goes." I rose and started towards the street.

"What the fuck, Lizzy?" Charlotte kept up, stopping me, "I thought you'd be happy that I'm seeing somebody."

"You're _using_ somebody," I pointed out crisply, "And normally, I wouldn't give a rat's ass about Billy Collins of all people, but this isn't _you_, Charlotte. You can get by well enough on your own without Collins and his connections to this de Bourgh lady."

"No I _can't_," she suddenly snapped, and the desperation in her voice surprised me. She ran a hand through her hair, exasperated, "God Lizzy, don't you _get_ it? I barely have any money right now. I don't know when I'm going to get an opportunity like this. I'm not some prodigy coasting on a full-ride scholarship like Mariah, okay? I don't want to see what little tuition money my parents forked over go to waste. I can't afford to find some shitty job and work my way up."

"That sounds like pure laziness," I glared, "It sounds like bullshit and pure unwillingness, okay? And you have none of those. I never thought I'd have to be the person to tell you that you're good enough. Sorry, _was_ good enough."

"See, this is _exactly_ why I didn't want to say anything to you," she accused angrily, "Jane would have been happy for me. In fact, she is. You're the only one who shits on people like this! You judge _everybody_. You think you're always right."

"I'm right about _this_!"

"Whatever," she muttered crisply, glaring at me, "It's not like we're related or anything. I don't need your approval." And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked back to her apartment.

By the time I got home, I was so worked up and angry that I forgot to greet Jane and Georgy. I walked right past them, stormed to the kitchen and brewed a fresh pot of tea. Chamomile. One of my mom's habits had translated through another generation.

"You know," Georgy came in, munching from a bag of chips, "The great thing about you is that you're not one of those girls who is _silently_ pissed off. Like those quiet, moody cashiers at grocery stores you half-suspect are going to snap one day and gun the entire block down."

For a second, I forgot my stress and smiled at her, laughing. I sighed and leaned against the counter, palm to my forehead.

"What's bothering you?" she asked, hopping up to sit on the counter, "You can't blame people who irritate you this time. As far as I know, my brother and Carolyn Bingley aren't in town anymore."

This was true. My asshole bin was fresh out of stock.

"Yeah, I know," I admitted, taking a chip when she offered. "But what happens when people you _like_ become irritating?"

"You poke them with pointy objects," she suggested, staring at me critically, "Who do you have in mind?"

I didn't feel like answering.

"Wait a minute, Jane told me you were at _Charlotte's_."

I looked at her.

"You had a _fight_," Georgy sulked, blue eyes sympathetic, "Is it because of her new boyfriend? I haven't met him, but I heard he's kind of like that mix of gum and bird poo you find in your shoe after walking in the city."

"I think the description can be narrowed to just bird poo, believe it or not," I laughed, surprised, "Wait, _you _knew about him too? Why does nobody tell me anything anymore?"

"Because you're judgmental," she grinned at me, ruffling my hair this time, "And don't look at me like that. I'm going to finish watching _Doctor Who_. Charlie got me addicted and David Tennant is wonderful."

"I'll take your word for it," I smiled. She grinned and walked out.

I spent the next two days in a haze of coffee, a Psych paper, Calc exam and not talking to Charlotte, who I knew by Jane's confirmation, was perfectly inclined to take Collins with her to Charlie's Thanksgiving dinner two weeks from then. If Will Darcy was going to be present, I kind of hoped that he would sear a hole in Collins' face just by glaring. It'd be nice to see his hate put to a worthy source.

I was thinking about this on Tuesday after work, loading my bags into the trunk of Brenda's sedan. She had agreed to give me a ride home and was sitting on the hood of the car, talking enthusiastically with her boyfriend. I smiled when she winked at me. She was tall and lanky, with a boyish blonde pixie cut and killer bone structure. She was also a total sweetheart and was completely devoted to her boyfriend of three years who was studying architecture in Vienna for six months. That iPhone might as well have been its own appendage, permanently glued to her ear.

It was just when I closed the trunk that George Wickham seemed to materialize beside me out of thin air, causing me to flinch backward about two feet. He laughed and steadied me, hands on my shoulders, and I pulled away. Brenda looked over and gave me a serious little nod, disappearing inside. It was like she knew that I had to talk to him; freaked-out-girl-vibe? Quite possibly. I frowned and turned back to George, arms crossed over my chest.

"Jesus, now I know that it's not just my imagination; You really _are _avoiding me," he looked mildly concerned, green eyes inquisitive. He sat on Brenda's trunk, "What's up, buttercup?"

"Will you cut the crap? I actually have to talk to you."

"_Ouch_," George laughed.

And then I got really angry. Really unreasonably, un_fathom_ably angry. Think monster-in-_Cloverfield _angry. I spun around to face him, nearly shoving a finger in his face and reminding myself (scarily enough) of my mother: "Are you fooling around with Georgy to get back at Will Darcy? Because I have to know. She's my housemate and I really care about her, okay? If you hurt her, I will remove your ability to procreate. Now _answer _me!"

The interesting thing was watching George Wickham's facial expressions change gradually. Dull shock warped to embarrassment, which subtly changed to anger and then settled for indifference. It was frustrating, but I kind of wish I had my camera phone ready. It was very cartoon like in how fast it all happened.

"I take it Jane told you," he mumbled, looking out across the parking lot, "I saw her that day at the club; I should have known she would misunderstand everything. And then I found out from Georgy that you three are _living _together --"

"What are you talking about?" I asked skeptically.

George rolled her eyes, "Listen, Georgy is a sweet girl. I wouldn't wish her any harm; It's not her fault that her brother is a dickhead. I haven't told her anything, and I'm _definitely _not fooling around. We're friendly. And her being Will's sister is one of the reasons I'm leaving that job, okay? It's too weird. Too tense."

"But Jane said --"

"_Jane _probably saw that Georgy was attached and made her own conclusions from there," George said reasonably, "Because it's really obvious how Georgy feels. I don't return those feelings. I'm leaving that place, even though I love it. Are you happy? Jesus _Christ_," he scowled, hopping off from the trunk, "Of all people Lizzy, I really didn't imagine you'd think that I'm some manipulative asshole. I wouldn't _do _that to somebody."

I couldn't really say anything. He looked so upset. And when he looked up, he knew he wasn't off the hook. And so he asked, very carefully, "Are you sure this isn't like, leftover resentment for me or something? I mean, I made a move, Lizzy, I was _interested_, and you completely blocked me. Not that I'm on to somebody new, but if I _was _--"

"God, _no_, it's not that," I said, frustrated, "That's a non-issue. The first thing I could think of was the fact that you hate her brother. Why else would you be getting that close to her unless you wanted to affect Will somehow?"

"That's pretty insulting towards Georgy, don't you think? She's a great girl, and it's wonderful spending time with her just as it is. As her friend, you'd think you would know that."

"I _do _know that, I just --"

"You don't trust _me_," he finished, eyes cold. "That's wonderful. Thanks for reducing me to a petty, revenge seeking asshole. Honestly, it's an enlightening moment in my life, right next to getting kicked out of college. Give me a second here to enjoy it."

Sarcasm looked ugly on George Wickham. I didn't like it.

"Don't be such a self-pitying jackass, okay?" I scowled, shoving his shoulder half-heartedly, "I'm just concerned for Georgy. I had to ask. I asked, so there. I'm relieved at the answer, and that's pretty much it." At that, I started walking past him to the passenger's side, but he caught my wrist.

"Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you," he said sincerely, "But you got to understand. I just come by to see how you're doing, and you turn around and practically _interrogate _me. It's actually really insulting. I get that you have good intentions though."

"No, I just like doing this to make people feel like shit," I rolled my eyes, "Of course I have good intentions. I care about her."

"She's lucky then," George nodded once, "Considering her brother is Will Darcy and he doesn't seem to be in anybody's good book. Maybe she got the good genes."

I didn't answer. In fact, I was getting a little tired of the Darcy slamming. I agreed with it, but for a second, it seemed to be the one thing we had most in common then. Which was just _sad_. And it spoke volumes about me and George together.

"Don't tell me you're warming up to him," George teased quietly, face incredulous.

"Hardly. I just don't feel like talking about the Darcys anymore," I sighed, brushing my bangs out of my eyes, "Listen, I'm holding Brenda up. I'll see you later."

"Okay," George murmured, burying his hands in his pockets.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, not entirely sure why I said so. Not entirely sure that I _meant _it.

"Me too," he nodded and gave a short-lived little smile as I got settled inside. The air was far from clear, but I just prayed that he was telling the truth. I would have to check at some point.

Sure enough, three days later, Georgy was mopey. Even studying more effectively. It didn't take much thinking for Jane and I to understand what had happened.

* * *

"This place is _gorgeous_," Jane breathed, running a hand along the polished granite counter. Charlie beamed from the entrance to the kitchen, untying his scarf and shrugging out of his jacket, which he perched clumsily on one of the chairs. He set two grocery bags on the powered off stove in front of me and emptied the others at the kitchen table.

"Please tell me you didn't get cranberry sauce," I laughed, reaching into a bag and pulling out cans, "Oh _yuck_."

"I'm sorry Lizzy, I wasn't under the impression that we were catering to your tastes alone this evening," Charlie grinned, ducking when I flicked a sliver of cucumber at him from the salad I was preparing. "In all honestly, I can't really thank you guys enough for saving me like this. I've never even attempted a Thanksgiving dinner," he smiled sheepishly, "I asked Carolyn to come over earlier and help out, but she hung up on me. And Lyssa is tied up with Simon, of course."

"Simon?" I asked, typing my hair back into a loose ponytail before I cut up more vegetables, "Is that her husband?"

"He's Lyssa's five year old; she's a single mother," Jane informed me, checking the oven, "And re_lax_, Charlie. The bird's doing well. We probably need two more hours. My mom taught me well. Lizzy, not so much."

"Screw you, I'm excellent at salads and pasta. You put meat into the equation and it's all gone to pot."

"_To pot_," snorted Charlie, "Aha."

Jane rolled her eyes and laughed, and Charlie grinned, slinging an arm around her. He pulled her close and planted a kiss on the top of her head, and Jane buried her face into the crook of his neck. After a second, she said, "You smell good."

"I know," he murmured back, smiling.

"_Way _to take a compliment," she teased, swatting at him, "You know that a '_thank you_' could suffice, too."

I hid a smile and went back to the pantry to look for some seasoning. Truthfully, leaving home early to get to Charlie's gorgeous upstate home, ridiculously well furnished and tasteful and chandeliertastic ("_Chandelirious?_" Jane had suggested), was nothing I was objecting to. We had been working in the kitchen since morning, sleepy in sweats and blaring old KC and the Sunshine Band hits. Aretha Franklin and Louis Armstrong followed. And then Lil' Wayne, because Charlie had a really strange combination of songs on his iPod, and it was tolerated because he's so dang adorable. And Jane liked "Let It Rock", before we opted for Vampire Weekend.

"We need to set the table soon," said Jane distractedly, glancing at the clock, "I can't wait. Your china is beautiful." Charlie and I took an opportunity to roll our eyes, and she blushed, "It is! It's going to be a gorgeous table. We're going to recreate that scene in the movie _House Arrest_ when all the kids set this grand, fancy table with candlelight and make toasts."

"Is that with Jamie Lee Curtis?" Charlie asked, ruffling her hair, "You're so cute."

About an hour later, Jane had set a _beautiful _table. I'm talking matching dinner plates (_two _each!), crystal champagne flutes, and the crème colored, expensively scented, intricate and gauzy tablecloth. The Netherfield house was kind of stocked up like Bed Beth & Beyond _and _Ikea. Of course, nothing was on the actual table itself yet. The dining room had magnificent lighting though. Stuffing (far from homemade) was prepared. And godawful cranberry sauce that everybody seemed to enjoy. The turkey hadn't exploded yet and the salad was top-notch, so overall, things were running smoothly for the time being.

After a little while, I disbanded from Charlie and Jane (they were getting too cozy for an awkward third bystander) and explored the rest of the house. It smelled warm. Woodsy. The thing was that it was absolutely breathtaking without being gaudy. The floor was marble, the walls were a deep wine color, and nearly everything consisted of dark, mahogany trim, including the winding staircases. Down the hall from the gourmet kitchen was a _library_. I shit you not. You can guess where I disappeared for a good hour and a half.

I don't know if Charlie's folks were avid readers. Something told me that the shelves might have been crammed with volumes just for the sake of appearance. When I finally wedged out a book from an alphabetically organized (I'm not kidding) rack of Mark Twain's works, the spine of _Huckleberry Finn_ crackled like some new hardcover from Borders. So much for getting a lot of use out of this room; most of the books had scarcely been opened. Either way, I found a copy of _East of Eden_ (a favorite) and tried to locate one of my favorite passages.

"Adam's a fool," a familiar voice managed to scare the shit out of me. I whipped around and the book dropped. Will Darcy stood before me, smirked a little and picked up the novel. He handed it back to me and I glared.

"Way to sneak up on a girl."

"Actually, these floorboards creak. You would've easily heard me if you weren't so oblivious," he informed me, inspecting the shelf I was leaning against. I grumbled under my breath and backed up a little, watching him. He didn't bother looking back, but still, I couldn't thumb through the book in peace. I felt antsy with him there.

"Why is Adam a fool?" I asked hesitantly, rubbing the back of my neck.

Darcy glanced over, rolling the sleeve of his gray button-up neatly. He had made an effort to dress presentably for dinner and he looked _good_. I was still in jeans, a thermal and my hair was tied in a messy knot. I wasn't sure why I felt insecure. Was it the remnants of our argument a month ago? No, that was silly; he had probably forgotten about it. And then Darcy answered my question, "Adam Trask is naive, that's all. I know Charles is supposed to be the aggressive, jealous one, but at least he's got sense enough to be wary of Cathy."

"It doesn't stop him from jumping into bed with her," I pointed out, finding the first couple of pages. Steinbeck's dedication was one of my favorites, and I reread it again silently, before Darcy interrupted with the simple explanation for Charles' motives:

"He's a guy."

I snorted, looking up, "That's _obviously _a good enough reason. He knows she's the spawn of Satan, but hey, a man's got to _get _some. Is that your thought process here?"

"Not mine personally," he looked at me carefully, "You're getting awfully defensive over a character."

"Yeah, it tends to happen; how was your flight?"

"Annoying," Darcy responded.

"I'm not surprised," I laughed.

"Why, you don't like flights either?" he asked, smiling slightly. Or maybe it was half of a grimace. It was hard to tell with this man.

"No, I'm not surprised you found it _annoying_," I closed the book, slipping it back into place, "You kind of have that habit. With everything."

"Yeah, but everybody has their thing. Their separate quirk, if you will," Darcy mumbled, turning to face me, and I was a little surprised he hadn't argued. I walked carefully around him and found another book I was interested in, not very keen on holding eye contact.

"Quirks exist, I know," I said after awhile, flipping through a used, crinkled (for once!) copy of _The Last of the Mohicans_. I looked at Will Darcy from the corner of my eye, "For instance, your quirk is probably this super, tricked out ability to hate everything you see. With an intense passion. Pretty much."

"Then yours must be to misunderstand everything you see. With an intense passion," he added, smart-alecky, "_Pretty much_."

"Kudos for throwing that back at me; that was cute."

"Yeah, I know."

And then it hit me that I was actually having a _non_-argumentative conversation with Will Darcy. He wasn't even _scowling_. It was like a cross between contented and smirking, and I didn't like it because I wasn't used to it. Holy awkward moment, Batman. I quickly closed my book and cleared my throat, "I'm going to go and check on the turk-- Jane. The turkey. And _then_ Jane," I paused, "Wow, I'm literate."

"My sister's already here, by the way," Darcy said this in such a cryptic way that I glanced up sharply to see if he was implying something. I don't know why George Wickham instantly sprung to mind; but Darcy looked unaffected, he had simply been sharing. He then told me that my "friend Charlotte is here with some skinny, shorter guy" who kept sweeping the walls with a hand and rubbing his forefinger and thumb together like Mary Poppins, searching for dust.

"He's a ridiculous little asshole," I muttered, feeling my stomach curl at the thought of sitting through Thanksgiving dinner with Collins across from me, blowing achey little kisses to Charlotte Lucas, girl-I-refused-to-speak-with, AKA girl-who-was-suffering-from-a-severe-case-of-stupidity.

"I'll steer clear then," Darcy muttered indifferently, uninterested anymore. He was already rifling through a book intently (_Siddhartha_), and I found it best to leave. At the very last second though, I turned on my heel. And I couldn't believe what I asked next. I don't even understand why I did it; I probably like torturing myself. Secretly, I must be really fucked up.

"Say Darcy, what is it that you do again? Georgy told me and I can't remember."

_Liar, Liar_. Is a movie with Jim Carrey.

He looked up, surprised at the inquiry, "Um, editing. I took over my father's publishing house after he passed away. It's a small, privately owned one in North Carolina. It isn't like McDougal Littel or Random House or anything like that."

"Do you like it?"

"I _hate _it," he seethed, snapping his book shut, "I don't even handle many manuscripts. If a query letter is good and a manuscript gets requested, it travels up the chains. But most of it is such unoriginal _garbage_. It seems promising and then it just fails. Not that I'm going to be there for much longer, thank God. I think I'd rather shoot my own foot off first."

It was funny. I knew that he was trying for once to _maybe _improve himself. Actually no, he was probably attempting to make himself sound important while simultaneously broadening the social spectrum by carrying on a decent, civilized conversation with Elizabeth Bennet, girl he had openly scorned. I would have appreciated the effort if the response didn't anger me so much. But I had asked for it. Maybe I _am _a masochist. Either way, I barely responded.

"_There _you are," Charlotte Lucas poked her pretty little head in the doorway, and I completely forgot that I was angry with her when her eyebrows shot up. It took me a second to understand that she was surprised at who I was in the library with. I cleared my throat, looked back to Darcy, and followed Charlotte out.

"Chummy with Will Darcy now, are we?" Charlotte asked carefully, smirking a little. I didn't respond, and I got the impression that she was trying too hard, especially when she added, "_FDarce _doesn't work as well. Maybe Georgy has rightful ownership of that kind of name."

And because grudges are held partially because of necessity and mostly out of convenience, I didn't answer her. I'm actually _that _mature. Instead, I turned towards the kitchen and left her just as Collins entered the hallway.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Happy ...Martin Luther King, Jr. Day?

I hate this story in the sense that it will not _leave my brain_. I had to get it down. It was threatening to spill a little on my Euro notes, and I have a strict anti-doodle policy. Why am I telling you this? I'm not really sure. I'm really talented at rambling. Be proud of me, I updated in half of the time I promised! I mean, I know it's been two weeks, but still. Progress is progress.

Please review. :)


	14. Well, Shit

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Fourteen – _Well, Shit_)

Lyssa Hurst was a single mother with pretty great bangs and a charming job working in the beauty department for the UK version of _Glamour_ magazine. For this reason, she often interrupted daily conversations to inform you that loose powder applied before eyeshadow would leave the color more lasting. Or that a short burst of cold water at the end of a shower would close pores and retain moisture. She had a son named Simon who had a _ton_ of messy dark blonde hair and a strong, palpable devotion to Lightning McQueen. He was also under the impression that Batman could "totally _wreck_" Superman any day of the week. I wanted to put this child in my pocket and carry him home with me. Lizzy Bennet, future kidnapper. Lock your doors.

"The child's on _speed_," Lyssa explained, watching him from the corner of her eye, "Speed meaning juice boxes and cartoons, but the energy never stops. I blame Henry for those genes, before he became a lazy shithead and alcoholic that is."

I grinned, delighted. Lyssa also had a tendency to avoid sugarcoating things. She had gotten knocked up nearly six years ago by a childhood friend named Henry Leeds on a bored (and excessively drunken) Saturday night. They had never married. He liked hard liquor – a _lot_. Ergo, he was held at a distance, sending child support checks. Did I mention this was shared within the first ten minutes that I met Lyssa Hurst? Yeah, there was no contest between Bingley sisters here (even though Lyssa was Charlie's half-sister).

"_Uncle Charlie!_" a banshee shriek was heard in the kitchen and I jumped, Lyssa steadying me with a hand on my shoulder: "Relax darling, that's his indoor voice."

Charlie, _poor_ Charlie, had the skinny little brat swinging like a primate from his neck. Wincing, he unlatched the boy from his body and set him beside his mother, "Lyssa, you need to invest in a sedative for this boy. I personally have friends who hunt. You could take a set of tranquilizer darts back to England with you."

"You're an exemplary uncle," Lyssa snorted with amusement, running fingers through her son's hair. Simon smiled at me, all deep brown eyes and dimples.

"Who's this, Mum?" he asked, tugging on his mother's sweater.

"This is Lizzy. You know that girl Jane you met in the kitchen, Sy?"

Simon's face registered vague comprehension, "You mean the pretty one Uncle Charlie's going to marry?" He whirled around to face his uncle, who matched the shade of a tomato and avoided eye contact.

"Simon, I'm Lizzy," I extended a hand, and he shook it enthusiastically, little hand gripping my fingers. He continued shaking twenty seconds longer than socially acceptable for adults. Also a little more violently, and I couldn't help but laugh.

Georgy appeared by my side, casually popping a couple of olives from the table into her mouth. She looked a little sullen for Thanksgiving, but she was brightening up a bit, especially when Simon tackle-hugged her. Kids have that effect.

"I didn't think he would recognize you; it's been two years," Lyssa remarked curiously, "Simon, do you actually remember Georgy?"

"_No!_" the boy screeched, arms locked around the younger Darcy's waist.

"What the F. Scott Fitzgerald do you _feed _this kid?"

"Thanks for the censor, Charlie."

"You're welcome."

"He's _really _friendly," Lyssa elaborated, "And I might have let him have a candy bar earlier." Georgy laughed and hugged Simon back, smoothing his hair.

"Leave Georgy alone, come on Sy," Charlie attempted to pry him off, causing Simon to _insist_ upon a piggy-back ride. "Oh for the love of God," he sighed, but obliged nonetheless. Simon beamed brightly and climbed onto his uncle's back, who left the room shortly. I couldn't help but think that maybe a few years from then, depending on his plans, Charlie would make a pretty adorable father.

When dinnertime finally came around full-swing, I was a little surprised by how many people were at the Netherfield home. The house was so large that the party had pulled apart to their own separate hideaways for the last hour or two. Charlotte entered the dining room talking cheerily with Jane, and Collins followed mutely after. Darcy I hadn't seen since the library; he took a seat at the edge of the table and Carolyn Bingley (looking polished as ever, of course) took the seat nearest, prattling about something he didn't seem to hear. Or maybe he did. Sometimes it seemed like he only had one expression.

"Lyssa dear, you've gained a bit of weight, haven't you?" Carolyn implied sweetly when her sister came around, "You do know that we don't have Thanksgiving _outside_ of the states?"

"Oh Carolyn," her older sister laughed merrily, sitting across from her. I don't know if I expected an underhanded makeup gag or friendly quip. What came from Lyssa's mouth instead was: "Good _Lord_, you look old."

Carolyn's fingers flew to her face quickly and Darcy nearly spurted into the glass of water he was drinking, trying to conceal laughter. "I think Darcy just snorkeled," I said, taking a seat beside Lyssa. He met my eye quickly and looked down, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Things never change," Charlie murmured good humoredly. Jane smiled a little beside him. He pulled out a chair for her, all old-fashioned grace, but she promptly wrenched it out of his hands, moved it herself and took a seat. He snorted and she grinned widely at him.

"Mr. Bingley, this really is a _beautiful_ room; the Haziza sculpture is an authentic, I'm guessing?" Collins suddenly launched himself into a well-timed chunk of silence. His voice was unnecessarily loud, and everybody glanced up without really wanting to.

"Uhm, yes it is. A gift from a friend, actually. And thank you," Charlie responded, wincing a little. Collins was determined to call him Mr. Bingley throughout the evening, even though he had been corrected three times. We weren't really sure _why_. Collins has a misplaced sense of social climbing.

"My godmother has _two_ gifts from the Israeli sculptor himself," said Collins proudly, taking a hearty spoonful of stuffing before anybody had helped themselves. "She's got extraordinary taste. I know the first one is in her foyer," he trilled off the French pronunciation of the word (_foy-ay_). "It costs around eight hundred, with_out_ the pedestal. Worth every penny. Is yours lacquer?"

"Would you pass the potato salad?" Charlotte suddenly asked, elbowing him. He turned to face her, a little surprised and caught off guard, but he obliged nonetheless. She unwillingly caught my eye across the table and cleared her throat.

Carolyn gave a whinnying little chuckle and wiped the corners of her mouth daintily, looking at me. Her direct understanding was probably that I was to blame for his ridiculousness. Charlotte was my best friend. Collins was dating Charlotte. Hence, Collins was my warped responsibility.

Soon after, Charlie gave a lacking but very appreciated first toast before he tried, and failed miserably, to cut the turkey. At which point Jane snorted and took the knife from him and Darcy got up to help, slicing as she held the bird in place.

"Dang Will, I don't remember you being an experienced turkey cutter," offered Georgy jokingly, reaching across the table for juice, "Where is this hidden talent coming from?"

"I unleash all my pent up frustrations on poultry, don't you know?" Darcy smiled a little from across the table. Simon suddenly dashed into the room and watched without interest. His mother had made an effort to feed him before dinner. He would be hopeless to keep in his seat at the table anyway.

"Is it dead?" Simon asked to nobody in particular.

"Very much so," answered Darcy.

"You want some?" Jane asked, forking a slice into a plate and handing it to him. He took the plate gingerly and took a seat by his mother, who blinked twice but said nothing.

"Are we going to do that awful tradition of going around in a circle and listing what we're thankful for?" Carolyn suddenly asked, finding this amusing and awfully clever.

Charlie looked up and grinned, completely missing her sarcasm. Or maybe not, because he said, "That's a _wonderful _idea, Carolyn. Who wants to start?"

"Start with the misanthrope first," Lyssa nodded happily to Will, who looked up, startled. "I'm just teasing you, Will. I'm trying to embarrass the quiet ones at the table."

"No, Lyssa's right. Take the stage, Darce," Charlie laughed, clapping. Darcy's uneasiness was clearly felt. Georgy snorted and rolled her eyes at him, and Collins across from us whispered something urgent into Charlotte's ear.

"You do know that I was _kidding_, right?" Carolyn insisted, but nobody was really listening to her. And then in a second, Georgy rose from her seat, took Will's full glass of wine and cleared her throat regally. That was the thing about her. She was either shy and buttoned-up or extremely outspoken. There was no gray area, and it turned on and off like a light switch. We were pretty partial to the latter.

"Will Darcy would like to announce that he is _exceedingly_ thankful this year. For friends and family? Maybe. He is most appreciative of industrial strength Advil. He is also grateful for Bush leaving office soon. He definitely salutes the makers of _Grand Theft Auto IV_." She then laughed as Darcy tried to wrestle the glass away, but he was grinning and she pulled back, "Lastly, he is grateful for his beautiful younger sister, who is a beacon of light and needs no further description." Laughter broke out (except for Collins and Carolyn, who looked a little disapproving) and she gave a little bow.

"Like hell you are," Darcy snorted, promptly messing up her hair. She swatted a hand at him, laughing. If there was one thing that _didn't_ play against Will Darcy it was that, between bouts of manic protectiveness, he was pretty cute with his younger sister. Maybe that was the lone tally in his win column; he was good to Georgiana.

Who apparently didn't see fit to cut her toast short, because she suddenly said, looking across at me quickly, "Will is also _very_ thankful for Lizzy Bennet. Every other sparring partner he has met in his life has failed epically compared to her."

I really didn't want them to, but everybody suddenly _stared_ at me and I didn't understand why. Nobody laughed either, because Darcy's discomfort was _that_ tangible. Georgy looked at him quickly and her smile faltered. Ye gods, this was awkward; where the hell had _that_ come from? I made the effort to clear the air and raised a glass, "Thanks, Georgy?"

After dinner and just before dessert (after the awkward had a chance to marinate), I found Georgy, Jane and Charlie out on the terrace, which wrapped around the entire house like a protective coating. We were just by the stone pathway, and Jane and Charlie sat on the porch swing, her head on his shoulder and her legs curled up underneath her. Charlie had thoughtfully draped a quilt over her so she wouldn't be cold. I couldn't tell if she was sleeping or not.

"You two are so frigging _adorable_," Georgy declared, almost as if it were insulting. One of Charlie's eyebrows shot up and she shrugged, "Just look at that. If I took a black and white photograph right now, you'd find it in sample picture frames across the country within a couple of months."

"Are you suggesting somebody get their camera?" I asked her, balancing a mug of tea while I took a seat on the wooden bench beside her. She beamed at me, and I took the opportunity to ask, "Hey, what was up with your mega-uncomfortable speech earlier? Last time I checked, your brother isn't thankful for _any_ spiteful Bennet here. I think most of us died a little inside at that bit."

Georgy didn't look at me then; she looked at Charlie, who busied himself in fixing Jane's quilt, who I discovered probably _was_ asleep from a couple glasses of wine. Georgy finally turned back, but her answer was strange: "I don't know. I was just cracking a joke."

As if on cue, Will Darcy himself suddenly sprang in onto the terrace, shocking us all. Jane even glanced up sleepily. His hair was a little ruffled and he loosened his tie irritably, cursing under his breath. He stopped when he saw me and quickly closed his mouth.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" asked Charlie, smiling slyly. Darcy was about to take a seat beside him, decided against it, and sat at Georgy's side, running a hand through his hair.

"You know the little guy, Collins? He keeps _following_ me, talking about his godmother. He insists that he knows me from somewhere, and I'm just keeping the fuck away at this point."

I burst out laughing. Hysterically, even. I didn't know why I found it so funny. It was probably because I imagined tall Will Darcy weaving around the halls, scared shitless, as the troll like Billy Collins chased after him with the desperation of a Jonas Brothers fangirl. In this nugget of a mental image, "Flight of the Bumblebee" played as stellar background music. Actually, the Benny Hill theme song worked better.

Darcy looked bewildered, "It's not funny. I can't believe your best friend is _dating_ that guy. Did you hear him at dinner? He's awful." At this, I sobered and looked down into my lap. Yeah, that sucked the laughter right out of the equation. It was too tragic.

"Don't talk about Collins; he may pop up in a second and overhear," Georgy advised, smiling when I cracked up, "Seriously, he'll just randomly stick his head out of the hedges over there."

"You make him sound like a whack-a-mole."

The younger Darcy reenacted banging a mallet viciously, with just the right amount of psychotic edge you could probably find in a character like Patrick Bateman. I started giggling so much that my side started to hurt.

"How much wine did Lizzy have?" Charlie murmured to Jane, who shrugged her shoulders sleepily. She was past napping with present company, so she got to her feet, quilt snugly around her, and motioned for Charlie to stay put when he followed suit. Down, boy.

"I'm just going to go get some coffee," she yawned against her fist, "It must be all that cooking. Stick around." At that, she opened the screen door and disappeared inside. Charlie sat back down very uncomfortably, crossing his leg over the other, ankle resting on knee. It shook nervously.

"You're going to go in after her, aren't you?" asked Darcy dully. Charlie winced, got up, and dashed inside. Georgy started to laugh and Darcy sat back and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "He's kind of like a lovesick puppy, you realize that, right?"

"It's _cute_," suggested Georgy, wrapping a finger around one of her curls, "I think he's absolutely in love with her." I smiled at this, getting warm, girly fuzzies inside. Kind of like the ones you get after that rain scene in _The Notebook_, even if you don't like the rest of the movie. It's just how we are.

But something about Georgy's statement seemed to rub Darcy the wrong way. He looked at his sister skeptically, and then to me, and then out towards the yard again, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees.

"I'm going to go see if they set out the cake yet," Georgy rose to her feet, giving a short stretch, "I heard it's this delicious, layered Sara Lee thing and I'm PMSing like a bitch."

"Thanks for that, Georgy. That's my favorite topic," Darcy winced at her, looking pained.

Georgy grinned and leaned over to kiss him stoutly on the cheek. Then she frowned, rubbing the side of his face, "Dude, this five o'clock shadow thing? I get that you had a flight and a long day, but it _hurts_. Like a bitch."

"I'll shave when I get back to the hotel," a beat, "Is 'like a bitch' your new favorite catchphrase or something?"

"Just be thankful that it's managed to replace all variants of 'your _face'_ and 'tu madre' comebacks, okay?" I snorted, slumping so that my head rested on the back of the bench. Georgy agreed heartily and Darcy rolled his eyes.

When she left, I was alone with her brother. It was one of those things where you both _want_ to leave, but neither person wants to seem affected by the discomfort. You're both desperate to retain a mood of nonchalance. Like nothing has changed. And so I mentioned this, because there was nothing better to do.

Darcy looked over curiously, "I didn't realize that you were in the habit of observing social scenarios. Is this for a class or something?"

"No. I'm just the observant one, remember?" I smiled a little, crossing my arms as I looked out over the property, "And stop saying 'in the habit'. According to you, I'm _in the habit_ of 'stealing personal possessions' and analyzing 'social scenarios' so far. Are you composing a list?"

"It's not like I'm _lying_; you've done both of those things," Darcy said.

"Yeah, I know. I just don't like the way you say it," I pointed out. He looked confused, but looked away. After about thirty seconds, I said casually, "So what's up next?"

"Meaning what exactly?" he asked; his voice was tired, but I wasn't really insulted. I could understand that mix of being a stick in the mud and having an earlier flight that day. This was standard Darcy.

So I humored him: "You have to bring up a topic so we can pretend to continue being laid-back. Or maybe erase the fact that the majority of our conversations have leaned towards the negative side."

Not that I was eager to be nice to him. But the more opportunities of being nice there were, the less tempted I would be to blurt out something in anger. Like my manuscript. Or the fact that Georgy was pretty credibly in love with his _arch foe_ (I've always wanted to say that). Or that he had dicked over George Wickham so horribly. No, surface conversation was so much safer. He just didn't make it easy.

"_This_ conversation's not negative," Darcy brought up, pausing, "Not that it's an actual conversation. It's kind of a conversation within a conversation. About several conversations."

"No, I got that. But I should just leave and save myself the trouble before one of us brings up something we both don't want brought up," I said quickly, making an effort not to look back at him.

"And what do you think is going to be brought up?"

"George Wickham."

_Oh fuck. Fuck it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you, Lizzy._ I clenched my eyes shut. I wondered if 'George Wickham' was like one of those access terms that caused a spark of a metamorphosis. Like I would look over and find The Incredible Hulk towering over me instead of Will Darcy, all, "You won't like me when I'm angry!" and shit.

"I heard you were supposed to bring him over here," Darcy managed. I looked over, and he was looking across the yard again. His jaw was tight and his posture rigid. But at least he wasn't green. He added, "I'm glad you didn't, by the way."

At this, I laughed. _The hell?_ "Sorry, Dad. Should I have gotten your seal of approval beforehand?"

"I'm just warning you to stay away from him."

So much for keeping it light. Every sentence from here on out was pretty icy. Me? I was just fantastically amused by how serious he took it, considering the fact that _he_ had ruined George Wickham.

"Are you trying to scare me?" I asked, and the grin might have ticked him off, "Because I'm not exactly shaking in my little boots here."

"I'm _serious_, Lizzy," Darcy suddenly snapped, his stare so intense that I actually couldn't hold it. And he had called me 'Lizzy', which was strange. It was always 'Elizabeth' or nothing, almost like an unspoken rule.

"Look, if you want to tell me what happened, that's fine. I already know the story, but I'm pretty open to hearing the defensive side of the argument. It's probably fair game."

That struck him. "Sorry?" he smiled bitterly, "The defensive side. Fucking _defensive_ side? As if I should be defending myself for something _I_ did wrong in this situation? What kind of bullshit did Wickham spoon-feed you anyway? It must be potent."

"Yeah, I'm sure," I grumbled, tired and totally unwilling to argue, "Look, this always ends the same way. But at least I can understand why you never even told Georgy about him. Who would want her to know what you did?"

"Ex_cuse_ me?" he asked, wide-eyed, "Okay, this is ridiculous. You have to tell me what he said to you." At this point, he was sitting very close to me, very urgent. I backed up a little. When had this happened and why hadn't I noticed?

"Look, what does it matter to you? It's not like I'm any _less_ confused about you by what he's told me," I said irritably, narrowing my eyes, "Everybody says something different, Darcy. It makes it ridiculously hard to understand your character." And it was. Sam Hutton's words and even Georgy's were fresh in my mind. _Darcy's a complicated guy_. Yeah, okay.

"And what have you gathered up so far? I already know that I'm an asshole by your standards, but enlighten me," Darcy requested, voice thick with bitterness. He was still glaring, but it wasn't anger anymore. It was worse. It was – God, what was that? _Disappointment_. As if I had fucking _wounded_ the poor guy. Unbelievable.

"I've 'gathered up' very little, don't worry," I replied crisply, "So you can sleep soundly tonight, 'kay?"

Darcy then got to his feet, facing the yard again. I saw the muscle in his jaw relax a little, his fists clenching and unclenching. He was trying to _compose_ himself. I didn't understand any of it. I opened and closed my mouth a few times.

Will Darcy glanced back at me, all heavy glare and clipped words: "Let's just hope you get things cleared up at some point, yeah? For all our sakes." Then he left me out on the terrace. I heard the door click shut behind him. And I felt angry and confused and bitter and _cold_. I wished that Jane had left the quilt behind.

* * *

The days came and went. After Thanksgiving, we were launched headfirst into finals preparation. I didn't have any time to be confused and angry about my argument with Will Darcy (although I thought about it so many more times than I would have liked and I didn't know _why_). I didn't have time to question George Wickham again or wonder if he truly had backed off. I was essentially buried in work.

And then things got worse. It was like somebody wrapped a noose around our lives and tightened it, trying to strain out the good things from the last couple of months. I understand that it sounds horrible and melodramatic, but I'll just fill you in. First, Georgy left Hertfordshire University.

We hadn't even seen it coming. One evening, late November, she walked into the kitchen as Jane was eating dinner and I was feeding Affleck and Damon. It would have been completely ordinary if we didn't see that her eyes were puffy from crying. She denied it and blamed a cold. _Before_ she told us that she was transferring out and moving back home. It was kind of like a sock in the stomach; she was so not herself.

"What?" Jane had asked, fork clattering, "But _this_ is your home. Why are you going back to North Carolina?" She stood up and looked at Georgy worriedly, "Sweetie, what happened? You've been crying."

"I'm just needed back home, that's all," she said, attempting to look indifferent and unaffected. It almost worked. "I'm really homesick too. I want to be closer; I've already sent out a transcript and I have enough credits. Strings have been pulled obviously, but we'll see."

"I don't understand," I said. "Georgy, it doesn't make sense."

"I just explained it to you."

"But it doesn't _make any sense_. Was this your brother's idea?"

And then she got angry. She told me I was meddling and that it wasn't any of my business. She took dinner in her room and refused to come out. Within a week, she had packed up all of her stuff and the house was thick and static with held back arguments and cardboard boxes. There was so much to say and nobody willing to say it. She was on a flight back to Charlotte that following Sunday. No hugs or goodbyes were exchanged. We were absolutely baffled. We didn't bother to look for a new roommate.

"It's Will Darcy," I muttered on a Saturday morning a week later, still in my pajamas with an unused toothbrush in hand. I was in such a fit that I was pacing the kitchen uncontrollably, "It's fucking Will Darcy. He's _babying_ her, Jane. She's like one of those toddlers that the psycho, inhumane parents strap leashes to when they're balancing their cell phones."

Maybe my argument with Darcy hadn't helped either. I could just picture him, preaching off to his kid sister: "Those Bennet girls are unsuitable friends, you hear me? They're loud mouthed and the dark-haired one is a bitch and she has dirt on me. You stay away and come back home." I didn't know why he wore a parliament wig and held a gavel in my mental picture. I blamed sleep deprivation.

Jane sat at the kitchen table, unresponsive. She was still in her robe, strands of messy blonde hair falling out of her hair clip and framing her face. She wouldn't look away from the screen of her cell phone. She hadn't been this gloomy about Georgy an hour ago. Actually, she _hadn't_ looked this torn up until that moment.

"Jane?" I asked carefully, taking a seat next to her.

When she looked up, her voice was detached, "What? Oh sorry, Lizzy. I just," she hesitated, snapping her cell phone shut. She set it aside and pressed her palms against her forehead, taking a deep breath.

"What happened?" I asked, taking the phone from her, "Tell me."

"A voicemail – Charlie left a message," Jane said quickly, babbling. She seemed so confused. "It wasn't even Charlie, it was Carolyn. God, what did she say? She was _forwarding_ it from Charlie. I don't even –" a pause, "I don't know."

_What?_

I dialed voicemail and held it to my ear, waiting until the greeting passed. And then Carolyn's tinny, insincere voice chirped in my ear, "_Jane dear! It's Carolyn Bingley. Charlie asked me to forward this to you, he's a little busy with packing right now. We're going back to England for about six months to be with our father. Charles really misses home, poor thing. Don't worry though; I'm sure you'll catch up when he gets back. If not, there's always email or Facebook, or what have you. Take care_."

"Six _months_?" I repeated, aghast. Jane looked up at me miserably, her expression halfway between shocked and tearful. She blinked furiously, shaking her head.

"I don't understand, Lizzy. I thought," she hesitated, "_Six months_. I thought that we'd gotten really close. I thought that he really cared about me." And then she stopped, eyes growing wide, "Oh _fuck_, it's all my fault! I brushed him off. _I brushed him off_."

"How the hell would you do that, Jane? Don't be ridiculous."

"A couple of nights ago he told me he _loved_ me," she clenched her eyes shut, "On the phone, for fuck's sake. I was studying, Lizzy, I was really busy. I didn't even realize what he had said until I hung up. I think I said 'thank you' back, Lizzy! _Thank you!_"

"Well, maybe you weren't ready to say it back. And who says that on the phone? Maybe you didn't mean it yet."

"I do," she said quietly, "I – I love him. And now he's gone. And I did this."

I couldn't stand to see her like this.

"He probably is just homesick, Jane," I assured her, but the explanation sounded shabby coming from my mouth too, not just Carolyn's. "It's not you. It's not. It's got to be this bitch of a sister. It's Carolyn Bingley." I was sure of it.

"Carolyn's been nothing but sweet to me, Lizzy," Jane sighed, wiping her eyes quickly as she got up and started towards the sink, "It has to be me. He probably doesn't think I'm worth it."

"_Jane_," I whined, following her, "Would you listen to yourself? That's horseshit. He adores you," I said emphatically, "Want me to say it again? _Adores_ you. This is his sister. It has to be. He wouldn't leave for half a year and not mention anything."

"He would if I wasn't _worth_ it," she cried, eyes glassy. It was too early to be heartache; these were tears of frustration. She threw the spoon from her mug into the sink, leaning against the counter wearily. "I'm such a fucktard," she declared, completely dejected.

"You're not a fucktard."

"Yes, I am."

"Get a hold of yourself," I hugged her tightly. She slumped against me, laughing and sniffling, "Oh my God, Georgy and now _this_. What happened? What the hell happened to this place?"

I didn't know. I had no idea in the slightest. But it's true what they say about one door closing and another window opening. Charlie leaving the states and a supportive shoulder in the form of Georgiana Darcy ditching us meant that I needed to recruit an old friend – open an old window. I made up with Charlotte that following day; because reconciliations, like grudges, can be made out of convenience too.

"So he just _left_?" Charlotte gawked in disbelief, stirring her tea patiently. It was Tuesday night, and I had come over to make peace and catch up. Green tea was a necessary instrument. I sighed and nodded gloomily from the other end of her coffee table. Charlotte shook her head, "It doesn't make any sense; he's crazy about her."

"I know that," I said, frowning, "I mean, it was so obvious, wasn't it? He was _smitten_. He even said that he loved her. And Charlie's not so irrational that he would've ducked out as soon as Jane hesitated. He would have understood that she needed space or time to think about it."

"Unless somebody planted a seed in his head and watered it," Charlotte suggested, gray eyes narrowed, "and there was a conversation I heard at the Netherfield house that kind of supports that. You can guess who had it."

"Please say it's not the Bingley sisters. That's my worst fear in action right there," I paused, "next to nuclear warfare."

"Well, Lyssa is pretty okay in my book. But _definitely _not Carolyn Bingley. I heard her talking to Will Darcy that night. I didn't think of it much. Actually, I wasn't even eavesdropping on Jane's sake to begin with, just yours."

"_Mine_?" I laughed, disbelieving, "I don't understand."

Charlotte shrugged, "They were talking about _you_, that's why I tuned in. I forget what they said exactly. She kept mentioning how pretty you would look as a bride, and Darcy kept rolling his eyes. And then Jane came up."

What the fuck was Carolyn getting at? But the topic of Jane distracted me. "And then what?"

Charlotte's face contorted. She scrunched her nose, pursed her lips, and put on a tone that was distinctly like the elder Bingley sister's. It was a stroke of wonderful impersonation. She leaned in close, "_Oh Will, we've _got _to do something about Charlie. He always does this! You can't let him give his heart away like this. He'll get trampled._"

"_Trampled_?" I snorted, half angry and half shocked, "What is she _on_?" Charlotte sighed and leaned back, resting her head in her palm. I asked her quietly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"If I can remember correctly, you still hated my guts. In fact, I'm not sure that you still do and are just ignoring it now because Jane's unresponsive and in an emotional crisis," she raised both eyebrows and smiled ironically. We weren't exactly bitter though.

"I'm not mad at you anymore. I don't _approve_, but you know that," I said, meeting her eye, "Anyway, I don't want this touchy-feely apology fest, Char. You said shit, I said shit. We don't agree with each other but neither of us are subject to change. We both hurt each other and we'll eat Ben & Jerry's and watch _Scrubs_ later, okay?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much our style," Charlotte replied, looking at me critically, "I might spare a reunion hug though. I love those. They're so _Brady Bunch_."

"Okay fine. But maybe later."

"Deal," she agreed, "But can you at try to be civil to him?"

"Collins?" I looked up, wincing, "I'll be honest. He's the sort of guy I want to blindfold and leave stranded in the middle of I-95 during rush hour. Just so we're clear."

"Fair enough," Charlotte nodded briskly, not-so-eager to continue on that topic. "Let's talk about Jane. How is she holding up?"

I sighed, folding my arms and resting my chin on top, "I don't know. She doesn't show emotion too well. She's thrown herself into her studies. Which I guess is _good_, because normal people just wither and completely ignore exams when these things happen."

"Jane wouldn't let herself do that; she's too responsible," Charlotte said, tracing the rim of her mug with a finger, "Besides, throwing yourself into your work means that you don't have to show how much something's hurting you. In a way, it's easier than the whole _I'll-eat-stale-Chinese-food-and-not-shower-periodically_ post breakup stint. And you smell better too, believe me."

"Speaking from experience?" I smiled at her crookedly.

"Hell yeah," she rolled her eyes, straightening, "Unfortunately, not all of us are as iron-willed as Jane."

"But she's really torn up, Charlotte," I murmured, drumming my fingers, "even _with _all the work. She'll just zone out in the evenings, and you know what she's thinking about. And I don't think I've ever seen her look so miserable. She's so quiet."

"It'll pass. Fuck Charles Bingley," she declared.

"I can't agree with that yet; I was really rooting for him," I mumbled. And I was. He was just so nice. So genuine and sincere and completely _right _for Jane. It had just backfired and exploded in our faces.

"And this mess with Georgy," I said quickly, narrowing my eyes, "I can't help but feel like it's more than coincidence that these two things happened so close to each other. Do you think Carolyn had a part with Georgy?"

"Honestly? It sounds like all Will Darcy."

"Fucker."

Charlotte smiled sympathetically, "And to think I thought you were warming up to him. You looked so non threatening in the library on Thanksgiving. I thought you would hug."

I gaped at her.

"Okay, not _hug_," she rolled her eyes, "But there was something else there, and it was a little surprising. Maybe you had forgotten to hate his guts for a few minutes."

"Believe me, I'm all past forgetting now," I mumbled, getting up to rinse my mug, "If I see that guy again, I may very well pull a Bruce Lee."

"Even though you can't throw a punch," added Charlotte wryly.

"Details, Charlotte."

* * *

A tell-tale sign that Jane's in distress? The entire house smells of cleaning products. I'm not sure why (as if school isn't distraction enough, right?) but this was the state we found the place in when my father came to visit us one weekend early December. There was such a pungent odor of Ajax and Comet bleaching powder that Dad asked dryly if we had murdered somebody over the past week and were trying to dissolve all evidence.

"There are several people we _wish _to murder, but your daughters aren't fugitives yet," I said, brewing him some tea from the kitchen. He sat at one of the barstools at the island of the kitchen, watching my fish carefully. "Tell me something though. Why did you randomly just pop in? I thought Mom is the one for spontaneous Kramer-like entrances. It's not really your thing."

"It is _now_. I had to get away. You of all people know how much tolerance I have back home, Lizzy," Dad mumbled wearily, rubbing his chin, "Especially since Lydia started dating this boy that _Kit _liked and Marin's going through a snotty, rebellious phase. Your mother's nerves are fried and I'm the one getting the choppy ends. I miss when you and Jane were there to take the backlash."

"Thanks much," I laughed, setting a cup in front of him. Over by the dishes, Jane was scrubbing the sink silently with elbow length rubber gloves, the scent of Clorox filling the air. Her hair (washed, thank God) was piled high on her head, her back bent in concentration. She had barely spoken a word in the course of an hour. So you could trust Dad for the necessary social commentary.

"Jane murdered somebody, I'm convinced," smiled Dad secretly, "It was probably one of the fish."

"What do you mean?" I mumbled, pouring myself a cup.

Dad tapped the glass of the fishbowl lightly, "The little one is right side up, Lizzy. I'm thinking it's time he payed a visit to that great septic tank in the sky."

Jane whirled around and I dropped my spoon with a cry. Poor little Matt Damon was on his back, floating awkwardly in the meniscus of his aquatic prison. Jane slapped her hands to her mouth and I scooped him out miserably. "Damon, you poor thing." Jane held out her hands and wrapped him neatly in a bundled sheath of paper towels, looking like somebody had punched her in the stomach. I guess fish deaths don't usually have this effect, but her overall misery with this as the cherry on top seemed reasonable. It happens.

"That's bleak, kids," Dad winced, taking a sip of his tea, "I really didn't travel two and a half hours to witness a pet death. Watch, he probably died three days ago and you didn't notice. This is why we never bought you a puppy."

"That's bullshit, Pop, we take _excellent _care of our fish, right Jane?" I said to her, holding Damon close to my heart.

Jane answered, "We just fed them this morning. Affleck looks fine."

Probably not for long. We had to be sure to clean the bowl regularly. Or at least prevent him from doing a movie like _Gigli_. Or committing suicide from loneliness.

Dad caught Jane's eye across the counter, but she refused to hold it. So he slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close, messing up my sister's hair until he got a response other than sullen dejection. "Janey, my love. You are _wilting_. Is this boy really worth it?"

She looked up blankly, "Lizzy told you."

"I don't understand why you look so surprised; this is _Lizzy _we're talking about," he teased, and I glared at him. Dad hugged Jane tightly and released her, "Chin up, honey. Men are bastards. Except for the one speaking, he is quite the gem."

"Would Mom agree to that?" I asked wryly.

"Probably not," he rationalized, taking a seat, "Then again, your mother never liked me. For God's sake, I proposed in Grand Central Station and she said '_No_'. Turned around and went on home."

"That's not on the basis of not _liking _you," reasoned Jane, resting her chin in her palm, "She was probably just very indecisive about it. And Mom's never been level-headed; she left you high and dry to make it memorable."

"Great success," I held both thumbs up, "And she accepted two weeks later, so please don't stink up the kitchen with nonexistent self pity, okay? I don't want to have to open a window here."

Dad rolled his eyes, putting a hand on his chest, "My soul was mortally _wounded_, okay? You kids are so damn _cynical _nowadays. I bet love comes and you beat it within an inch of its life before you give it a chance to survive. And then it's all soupy and pulpy and disgusting."

"You make it sound so _Alien vs. Predator_, Pop," I wrinkled my nose, hopping up to sit on the counter. Jane leaned against the island beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. I smoothed her hair back. "Jane will be fine. We just misjudged this guy. There are plenty more fish in the sea."

"_Really _bad choice of words," Dad looked purposefully at our fishbowl, now sans one A-lister. Jane winced.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Dang, longest chapter to date. You guys _really _like the name FDarce! That cracked me up; I had no idea that would stick. No intention for it to, anyway.

So, I wanted to do something new with Louisa Hurst. In canon, she's kind of like a passive version of Carolyn. I think Charlie deserves a non suck-y sibling and a cute cracked out nephew. Anywho, there it is. Ground out two chapters to make up for the short absence. Midterms are ahead, so I plan to live under a rock for the next week. Just fair warning. I'm still writing, but you know. Much love and please review!


	15. Glass Houses and Polka Dots

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Fifteen -- _Glass Houses and Polka Dots_)

"_What do you _mean _you're at the _airport_?_" Mom sputtered, "_I'm trying to make logical sense of how you would book a _trip _without telling your own _mother _about it, Lizzy_. _At least _Jane _clues me in on her life. You always have to do things differently, don't you? Always in spite! God, my _nerves --"

I winced, unhooking one of my iPod earbuds as she babbled on. I waited for the lecture to wind down. You can't really interrupt Faith Bennet's speeches even if you try. The result is usually a scream fest over the telephone, and it's a little embarrassing, especially when you're smack dab in the middle of terminal C at Philadelphia International Airport.

"I think I mentioned it after Jane called you, Mom," I murmured, stuffing one of my paperbacks into a messenger bag -- one of Charlotte's. "I _told _you that as soon as Jane left for Florida I would take Charlotte up on her offer for the winter holiday."

And I had. Between the sleep deprivation and ample caffeine abuse (thank God finals had passed), I had succumbed to that looming California trip with Charlotte and Collins. Yes, _Collins_. Can you blame me? Philly's winters are _bitter_; as soon as Charlotte mentioned this tucked away, charming little cottage on Rosings Beach a few hours from San Fran, my ears perked up. Like Scooby's.

I could brave Collins. I had ear plugs, good reads, my iPod and that beautiful prospect of sleeping in at the hotel and taking long evening walks by the shore. The only thing that was remotely shitty was the lack of Jane. But I knew what we had done was best.

Actually, it was _Dad _who called Ben Gardiner in the first place after bearing witness to Jane's epic mope fest. We measured her misery by number of showers a week, as Charlotte had suggested. Once Janey slipped off the hygienic radar, we decided to act. And Uncle Benny, being the charismatic travel whore that he is, decided to etch Jane into his winter travel plans to spend Christmas at the Gardiner beachfront property in Tampa. Pretty sweet digs.

"_You were sup_posed _to spend the holidays with your family, Elizabeth_," Mom finally blurted once my explanation was through. "_I can't believe you're missing this and you didn't even _tell _us. I'm almost too angry to be heartbroken_."

"Oh _please _don't pull that, Mom," I laughed, watching as Charlotte walked over from the vending machine. "I told you that I probably wouldn't be spending the break back home. I mentioned this back in like, _August_. And you're going to have a full house as it is with the Phillips coming down from Vermont with their fifty seven kids."

"_Six kids, Lizzy_," Mom amended.

"Same difference," I shrugged, smiling at Charlotte as she sat beside me. "Anyway, I got to go. We're boarding soon, so I'll call you when we land, okay? I love you; try to _breathe_. Please."

She grudgingly agreed and I slid my phone closed with a sigh, hurling it into the messenger bag with no intention to so much as glimpse at it for the next few hours. Charlotte sent me a sympathetic glance and offered me a pretzel, which I took her up on. "Where's Collins?" I asked.

"Shooting up on these natural, homeopathic herbs for his anxiety," Charlotte nodded matter-of-factly. "Y'know, Valerian and Melatonin. He's a wreck on planes. I've already agreed to give him the aisle seat."

"What a downer," I snorted, zipping up my bag. "I guess this means I shouldn't reference any scenes from the movie _Cast Away_."

"Please don't," Charlotte snorted. "For God's sake, be _nice_. If you give that man a heart attack, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Notice how your concern lies in taking the _blame_, and not Collins' health itself?" I grinned at her. "Not that I'm reading into this or anything."

"Oh, shove it."

"What are we shoving?" Collins suddenly appeared by Charlotte's side, unfolding his boarding pass gingerly. She pursed her lips and elbowed me sharply when I started giggling, refusing to respond.

* * *

Two hours into the flight, I realized that there were no prospective "single-serving friends" as Edward Norton had once eloquently put it. Nobody to chat with except Charlotte who indulged in about three old issues of _Vogue_, and Collins who (thankfully) was weaving in and out of sleep. Occasionally he would wake up and sneeze loudly, blaming the germs in the air.

"Should've taken NyQuil; it cures consciousness," I mumbled. Charlotte rolled her eyes and sighed, resting her head on my shoulder sleepily. I laughed, "Man, everybody always chooses this shoulder. It's Jane's favorite too."

"It's kind of comfy," she smiled, "I might just fall asleep for the next three hours."

"Who will I talk to then?" I pouted.

"There's this wonderful thing called _sleeping_, Lizzy." Charlotte laughed, "You'd think you'd be interested in it since exams are over. Or did you already spend the weekend in a perpetual coma?"

"The coma thing, definitely," I sighed, leaning backward. "Well, I slept in between cooking for Jane and forcing her out of the house -- which kind of backfired in my face. Movies and lunch at Bertucci's helped. But we went bowling as a pick-me-up afterward, and the people at the alley thought that she was terminally ill, which just about sums _that _up."

Charlotte winced, "I'm so glad you shipped that girl to Florida. She could do with some sun."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Plus, my aunt and uncle are a riot. It's almost impossible to not crack a smile when they're around. I think you'd have to have no pulse or something."

"Jane's a vampire, didn't you know?" she joked lightly, grinning. Collins nudged her sharply then, asking if she had any ear plugs because our conversation was 'embarrassingly _loud_'. At which point, I rolled my eyes and told Collins I had a pair, and I knew exactly where to shove them.

* * *

Will Darcy felt jittery. Excessively so. There was a variety of possible reasons, half of which he didn't want to explore. Instead, he attempted to blame his frazzled nerves on that impervious combination of airport traffic and two shots of espresso. Yeah, that would do.

Impatiently, Darcy filled the time with checking his Blackberry too often and eyeing the last two messages. One was from his aunt and the other was from Georgy back home. He sighed and rubbed his face jadedly, missing her already. She seemed to be recovering though. For that, he was indescribably grateful.

He watched the flood of passengers emerge out of the gate, sifting off to respective loved ones or baggage claim. A gaggle of young teenagers rushed past him, laughing obnoxiously. Then a crying child, a weary father and a wife (or girlfriend) with a murderous glare. An exhausted elderly couple with matching orthopedic shoes, and then -- Darcy perked up, detesting the weak feeling in the pit of his stomach -- there they were.

"I don't really _get _the appeal of the mile high club," Lizzy was already sharing, talking animatedly with Charlotte. Collins was off to the side, miffed at being ignored, but Darcy barely noticed him. He watched Lizzy stretch and collect her bags, shake her hair out from its clip and sweep it back into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. She seemed both tired and happy; a dichotomy, especially in an airport.

Lizzy suddenly met his eye from across the slew of plastic seats and lines boarding to get onto the upcoming flights. Her face registered surprise and then she regarded him indifferently and turned to murmur something in Charlotte's ear.

When they finally met up, Darcy opened his mouth and was immediately interrupted by Collins, who greeted him with excessive politeness and launched headlong into complaints. "I _hate _coach. Everything is so awfully cramped."

Lizzy explained to Darcy cheerfully, "We forgot to give him NyQuil and there was some little boy kicking his seat from behind about three quarters of the entire flight." At this, she socked Collins lightly in the shoulder and he stiffened, not the least bit amused.

When they finally wandered over to wait patiently by baggage claim, it just so happened that the group splintered into twos. Charlotte linked hands with her boyfriend, which left Will and Lizzy walking side by side together, exchanging very little words for a little while.

"I guess the obvious question," Lizzy observed as they followed Charlotte and Collins, "would have to be why you're here. Charlotte missed mentioning that along the way."

"You're staying at my aunt's beach house," Darcy explained simply. When Lizzy looked over, he elaborated, "Collins' godmother, Catherine de Bourgh? She's my aunt from my mother's side."

She balked in disbelief, "Guess this explains why he went stalkerazzi on your ass. You share a mutual relative."

At this point, they were standing some length away from the conveyor belt. Darcy watched Lizzy cross her arms over her chest and sigh. She was watching two men heave a set of green luggage onto a cart, her dark eyes puzzled. He was distracted for a couple of moments, until she said: "God, it's absolutely _suffocating_."

"What is?" he prompted, confused.

She smiled ironically, "It's like the world keeps shrinking, you know? Everybody knows everybody. We're never strangers, when you think about it."

"That was insightful," he said, considering it. "And a little insulting, given the circumstances."

What he expected was a half-hearted apology. What he got instead, he knew he should have foreseen. Lizzy burst out laughing, shoving him lightly. She rolled her eyes and smirked.

"You're incredibly cheerful for somebody who just flew coach with an obnoxious kid kicking seats behind you," Darcy observed, watching the luggage rotate. "By the way, which one is yours?"

"Bright red suitcase and a carpet bag," Lizzy paused thoughtfully, "And that little kid was a sweetheart. His name's John and it only took one package of M&Ms and a stick of Juicy Fruit to bribe him into kicking Collins' seat."

Darcy fought a smile and shook his head.

"A girl's got to entertain herself somehow," Lizzy justified, motioning up ahead. "Oh, I see mine. Come on, Darce, let's reel her in."

* * *

_Will Darcy is stalking me._

Okay, so I have this itty bitty hiccup of a problem called 'jumping to conclusions', but honestly. I wasn't exactly sure why he was popping up back into my life. In fact, if past knowledge serves correctly, there was _no _reason (besides irony) for him to even reappear. Fate had gone and plucked my housemate, _his _sister, out of my life and chased my sister's boyfriend, _his _best friend, across the pond. Either he was purposely tailing me or the universe has me marked.

So much for _The Secret_.

Not much had changed within a month and a half with Will Darcy. He looked a little ruffled, possibly ripping off Hugh Laurie's scruffy look. But he's one of those guys that can pull it off, which meant that I couldn't be nasty and call him a hobo or ask him if he was interested in a bar of soap. This was a shame.

It was strange though, how effortless it was to keep any snappy insults at bay. There was so much shit I wanted to call him out on, but I was so emotionally drained to even begin. I didn't _want _to talk about Georgy or Jane. I wanted to bury myself beneath starched white hotel sheets, sleep for eleven hours, wake up impossibly refreshed and spend the two weeks at the beach, out and away from any trace of Darcy, Collins, or this ominous de Bourgh broad.

"And right here are the orange groves," Collins said, pointing beyond the windshield of our rental to a patch of land I wasn't interested in. "Mrs de Bourgh has a _gorgeous _garden just in the back of the property, actually. The gladioles alone, and the stone archways free of _charge_, because she has connections to some of the most _unique _landscape artists --"

I tuned him out for awhile. I was digging through my bag, looking for my phone. Of course I had forgotten to call my mother when we landed. Typical.

"Lizzy, what on earth do you keep in that bag?" Charlotte snorted, leaning over to pick up the pair of Calvin Klein shades that had toppled out.

"Kryptonite," I muttered distractedly, trying to organize the junk. I gave up halfway and texted Mom from Charlotte's phone. "I should call Jane too. She's paranoid about planes."

Darcy met my eye briefly through the rear view mirror and quickly looked away. And then I realized Jane was going to be one of those things we would think about and never discuss. At least we both acknowledged that the issue was there. It was safe to say that Charlie was restricted territory too. And Georgy. We were racking up quite a list of unmentionables.

Not that I would plan on hanging around Lord Darcy past the time that he would drop us off at the hotel. At this, I smiled, starting to relax. I asked Charlotte for dibs on the shower first, if she didn't mind.

"Lizzy," she started, "we're going to Mrs de Bourgh's first. As for rooms, you're on your own, kid. We've got the room next door."

"Oh. Right."

Charlotte sighed, watching me, "God, I wish you would've done something _new _with your hair." When I looked at her, she laughed, "Don't get me wrong, the messy bun is one of those cute, Lizzy things I wouldn't touch for the world. But Catherine -- _Mrs de Bourgh_ -- she's a little more polished."

"Good for her," I said.

But Collins was already scanning me from over his shoulder, brow wrinkled with obvious distaste.

"One peep out of you and I renew my threat about the ear plugs," I pointed a finger at him, "Think about it, _Billy_."

Collins sighed irritably and turned back, muttering something along the lines of "I can't believe you're best friends with this woman". Darcy weaved in and out of traffic smoothly, close-mouthed and back to his proper place of ignoring everything and everyone.

* * *

Catherine de Bourgh's beach house was all glass and sleek, shiny surfaces. It was kind of like being in a museum; you weren't supposed to touch anything, and nearly every item inside was given a brief description and price by the not-so-honorable curator, Billy Collins. As we entered the house, leaving our shoes in the foyer, I got the impression that even in sixty five degree weather, the place had no _warmth _to it. There's modern and contemporary design, and then there's just plain iciness. This embodied the latter.

"I _really _want to use that 'people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones' idiom now, but I can't find an entrance," I murmured to Charlotte, pausing hopefully, "yet."

Charlotte smirked and we followed Collins as he lead us up ahead, walking quickly and then slowing himself down so he wouldn't appear overeager. Much that would do for his cause. Darcy lingered just behind us which, I'll be honest, gave me a case of the creeps. I just always had the feeling that he was constantly watching me. I could seriously _feel _his stare. Just as we rounded the corner of the hall into a living room, I couldn't take it. I whipped around quickly, almost smashing into him headlong. He stumbled back, surprised.

"What was that?" Darcy asked, eyes wide.

"Stop _staring _at me," I muttered, crossing my arms. "Seriously, if there's something you object to, my hair, my clothes, _whatever_, just come right out and say it. I don't care. But you've been _doing _that since we left the airport."

"I," he paused, "I wasn't --"

"_Fitzwilliam!_"

We both snapped our heads to the right, noticing (to my mild horror) that we had somehow inched into the living room, where three other people were watching us. Two of them were Charlotte and Collins, the latter who seemed stifled and embarrassed at the same time, bottled up like a tea kettle. Charlotte's shoulders were shaking with a silent laugh. And in a leather armchair to the left was a small, thin-lipped woman I instantly gathered to be Catherine de Bourgh. She looked to be in her mid fifties, had killer razor-sharp cheekbones, carefully applied red lipstick, crows feet around bright blue eyes and a contemptuous sneer. By the eyes and expression alone, I think I would've gathered the relation to Darcy even if he hadn't mentioned anything from the get go.

"Aunt Catherine," Darcy cleared his throat.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" she asked calmly, resting her hands loosely in her lap.

"This is Elizabeth Bennet, Charlotte's best friend."

"Nice to meet --"

"Come _here_, please," she said coolly, "I can't very well see you from all the way over _there_."

I raised an eyebrow at Darcy, but he was already ushering me closer to Catherine. I wondered if she had sight issues. When I stood before her, I kind of felt like a fruit at the super market -- the kind you probe for bruises and weak spots, and chuck back if you're not pleased with it. And she was giving me a once-over with such careful precision that she had actually unfolded a pair of glasses. "Uhm," I muttered, folding my arms self-consciously.

"Do you _realize_," a young man suddenly walked in (thankfully drawing the attention), "that the en_tire_ refrigerator is stocked with vegetables and cold _diet _shakes? Because I wasn't planning on _starving _here --" He stopped cold his in his tracks, surprised, and his eyebrows shot up. "Oh shit, sorry. Didn't realize you were back yet, Will."

"Thank you for that, Richard," Catherine said sharply. The other nephew had been located.

He smiled apologetically and probably found the only unfamiliar face there, extending a hand to me, "Hey there -- I'm Rich."

"Lizzy," I smiled, pretty relieved in finding somebody who at least had the outward appearance of retaining sanity. But something I said caused another little something to flit across his face briefly, and he raised an eyebrow with, "Wow, you're Lizzy."

Before I could say anything, Catherine whipped our attention back with sniffling something about cooling supper, as if holding a separate conversation was physically hurting her. I suddenly realized that she was kind of like an aged version of Carolyn Bingley. Trying to suppress a laugh, I followed the party into the dining room, Rich falling into step beside me.

"Well, _you _seem refreshingly normal," he said pleasantly, linking his hands loosely behind him.

"Why, did somebody suggest otherwise?" I laughed.

"No, not at all," he replied, grinning with a smile that was all dimples. "It's just that in _this _house, the normal ones are few and far between. I'm pretty happy."

Charlotte glanced at him over her shoulder quickly, nervous that we might be overheard. To which Rich murmured, "Cath's loaded up on Xanax, Charlotte. I could care less."

And as far as the Darcy (well, _Fitzwilliam_) genes went, Rich was dark haired like most of them. He had brown eyes too, but I didn't detect that other crippling syndrome that came in the gene pool -- y'know, that one of being born with a stick shoved up your ass. He was very cheerful, and conversation kind of came effortlessly. As we took a seat at the table (glass, _whoa_, shocker), he took a seat beside me, Charlotte at the other end. Darcy sat on the opposite end, at the right of Catherine, Collins at her eager left, who launched into a long, detailed account of our flight.

"Ten bucks we're eating poached salmon," Rich challenged his cousin from across the table, once Catherine's attentions were elsewhere when the cook dropped by. Darcy met his eye, looked sharply at his aunt, and gave one solid nod.

Catherine whipped her head around and caught my eye in the middle of conversation with the cook. She asked crisply, "You're not _vegetarian_, I gather."

"Can you _gather _that from first glance?" Rich asked quietly when she got up to follow the cook into the kitchen. He leaned in close to smell my hair, shaking his head. "Are you supposed to smell like broccoli or something? I smell shampoo." I snorted, ducking out of the way.

The cook brought around a large Caesar salad and a platter of Atlantic lox, igniting a fierce staring match from the Darcy-Fitzwilliam cousins.

"It's not _poached_," Darcy said.

"But it's still _salmon_," Rich grinned, extending a hand. "Fork it over. With interest, preferably."

"I wouldn't suggest the interest, he might spit in your plate," I muttered.

Rich laughed, glancing at Darcy sharply, "Dang Will, she _knows _you. It's a little scary."

"I know," Darcy muttered, fishing out his wallet.

Dinner was a tedious event that was more like an interrogation than a meal. I couldn't get a forkful of food in edgewise before answering Catherine de Bourgh's grating little questions. By the end of fifteen minutes, it had been discovered where I was attending university, how many siblings I had, what my political views were ("Moderate, Mrs de Bourgh" -- "I believe you mean _indecisive_, Eliza"). Then she finally asked appraisingly what it was that I planned to do with my life.

"I've absolutely no idea," I answered cheerfully, taking a bite from my salmon.

Mrs de Bourgh's eyebrows shot up, "What, _nothing_? You don't have a clue."

"You could become a folk singer and travel around the country in a caravan," offered Rich, chewing thoughtfully. "I've considered it."

I shrugged, "I honestly don't know. Junior year of high school I stocked up on all these ridiculous AP courses because I somehow _stupidly _thought that I would go into medicine. I killed myself with AP Chem and Biology, Anatomy and Calc courses, and then realized that I didn't want to do it anymore."

"You were unwilling to work hard," she gathered crisply.

"On the contrary, I worked very hard," I smiled at her sunnily, "I just realized that it wasn't what I wanted to do. And then I went through about a month thinking I would become a teacher, until I realized that my patience is about close to nil. Except with _really _little kids, so there's that."

"So now you're coasting through college without a major," sniffed Mrs de Bourgh. "What an endearing, _rootless _method of education. Your parents must be thrilled."

Darcy met my eye across the table without really meaning to, shuffled a little and looked back down. And I said, "My parents have three other mouths to feed besides mine and my sister's. We take care of ourselves, for the most part."

"Lizzy's actually a great writer," Charlotte spoke up for the first time, and we all looked at her. She cleared her throat, "She's been working on a novel."

"A _novel_?" Catherine repeated, and I couldn't tell if it was disapproving or not.

"It's stupid," I muttered, embarrassed. "Honestly, I sent it out and the more I look at it, the more I realize how bad it was. I don't think I'm meant to do it. It's locked away in some crappy filing cabinet, and I never want to break it out again."

Darcy was looking at me again. I wanted to flick pieces of my salad into his face.

"You should look into journalism," suggested Rich, watching me carefully. "I could picture you writing this insightful, bitchy column to sarcastic women. You could be based in New York; it would work."

"_Language_, Richard."

"So you're basically calling me sarcastic and bitchy."

"I think it's endearing," he grinned, "You pull it off. It's cute on _you_."

Mrs de Bourgh interrupted, "Oh, how I remember when my dear husband Nathan was alive. _Such _a clever writer. Of course, _he _pursued a law degree. Second in his class at Yale. God rest his soul."

"It's my great lament that I never got to meet him," gushed Collins sadly, throwing in an expert lip quiver. "_Such _a fine house he raised, Mrs de Bourgh, such a grand _legacy_--"

"How did he die?" I asked Rich quietly as Collins prattled on.

"A case of repressed personality."

Darcy almost choked on his water. Catherine glanced over, curious, "William, what's wrong?"

"It went down the wrong way, Aunt Catherine."

"_Do _be more careful."

"Yes, ma'am."

When she turned back to say something to Collins, I couldn't help but laugh, "Nice save there, Darcy."

"And here I thought we'd lost you in the conversation," added Rich, chasing a pea around his plate.

"No, I'm still here," he murmured back, eyes downcast. "Unfortunately."

"Oh, my lovely cousin," Rich beamed, leaning back. "What a ray of fucking sunshine."

"_Language_, Richard!" Catherine nearly slammed her fork down. "_One more time_ --!"

And then I couldn't handle it anymore. It was too good. Rich might as well have been a petulant seven year old flinging peas across the room and mouthing off. I started giggling.

"I hardly think this is _amusing_, Elizabeth," Catherine scolded, outraged.

Collins sneered, "Mrs de Bourgh, I do apologize. I blame her upbringing; her en_tire _family, save for her older sister, is _just _as disrespectful --"

"Collins knows your whole family?" asked Rich, "What does he do, sleep in your parents' bed?"

I slapped a hand to my mouth, trying to suppress the laughter. Most of the table was looking at me, and I completely blamed Rich. Charlotte was wincing, Collins and Catherine de Bourgh were glaring, and Darcy -- actually, Darcy was _smirking_. I didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

We thankfully disbanded toward the living room for dessert, which meant no more cramped quarters and interrogative questions from Catherine de Bourgh, _Law and Order_ style. As I took a cup of tea and looked at the painting on the nearest wall of the living room, conversation buzzing behind me, I noticed Rich Fitzwilliam come up and observe with me. I glared at him, pretty frank: "You're such a dickhead."

"_Ouch_," he laughed, burying his hands in his pockets. "I didn't _mean _to get you in trouble at the table. I think a wire or two snapped and you found me more funny than normal people do."

"Yeah, it's probably flight exhaustion," I paused, watching him carefully. "Damn, I guess I'm not one of your _normal _guests anymore."

"That's okay," Rich shrugged, "Nobody else here is really worth talking to besides you. There's Charlotte, but she's busy. And there's Will."

"_Will_?" I laughed, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your cousin isn't exactly the chatty, warm and fuzzy types. I think I'd sooner have a philosophical conversation with a brick _wall_."

"No, I meant 'there's Will' as in '_there_'s _Will_', just _behind _you, listening to you insult him." Rich continued cheerfully, and I spun around. Darcy was standing right in front of me, eyebrows raised.

"You could have interrupted me," I mumbled.

"I never like sparing people their own deserved mortification," answered Rich.

"Don't worry, Elizabeth, nothing in that sentence was surprising," Darcy said.

"I guess this saves me the trouble of asking what you think about my cousin," Rich laughed, taking a seat on the arm of the leather chair behind us. "Or what he was like in Philadelphia, at any rate. I guess you continued your socially retarded shtick, didn't you Will? It's so _misleading_."

"I don't think it is," I offered.

Darcy rolled his eyes.

"No, it kind of is," Rich grinned at his cousin, pinching his cheek. Darcy swatted him off with a scowl and Rich continued, "Will's actually a sweet guy once you boil down to it. He just freezes up in social scenarios. Probably does that whole 'Imagine everybody else in their underwear' thing backward, and gets all embarrassed."

"I wouldn't say _embarrassed_," I mollified, glancing at Will. "He's much more '_Oh, you heathen people, how dare you breathe in my presence!_', y'know?"

"Can I just interrupt the slam fest?" Darcy asked politely. "As much as I love being insulted, I'm actually standing_ right here_. Just thought I'd mention."

"It's been taken into consideration," answered Rich with a smirk.

"Richard!" screeched Catherine suddenly, "I need you to show Collins to the laundry room. I've had the maid leave clean linens on the dryer, in case the hotel's are unsuitable."

Poor Rich sighed and hopped up off his seat, affording me with a pretty crappy impersonation of Arnold Schwarzenegger's infamous "I'll be back" line. I snorted and watched him go, motioning impatiently for Collins to follow suit.

"You like him," Darcy observed and I turned around.

"I wouldn't say that," I joked. "After all, he got me in trouble with the lady of the house. In my book, he should be listed under 'asshole'."

"No, I'm pretty sure that's reserved for me."

I laughed, amused, "What is _with _you and self-pity today? Chin up."

He cracked a small smile and folded his arms across his chest. After a second or two, he surprised me and asked how my family and my sister were doing.

I raised an eyebrow. So much for unmentionables. "Jane's in Florida with my aunt and uncle for the holiday. The rest of my family you've never met, but they're pretty pissed off at me for ditching them during break. Even though I gave them about four months' worth of warning."

"They probably miss you."

"I don't know about that. My sisters are in their own little world, and my mother just needs the moral support." I sighed, watching Charlotte murmur something to Collins up ahead. "Home is such a mad house during the holidays. You're supposed to go back and be with your loved ones and _relax_, but it's _so _anxiety-riddled." When Darcy didn't answer, I turned to look at him, only to see that he was watching me so intently that I couldn't help but blush.

"What?" I asked carefully.

"I just find it ironic, that's all," Darcy shrugged, looking back at his aunt. He looked so serious. "I've always wondered what it was like to have a big family. It was only me, Georgy and my dad for the longest time. I'm not complaining; I practically had it made. But you always wonder about what you don't have. In both cases, not just mine."

"That's true," I admitted, watching him warily. "And now you've gone and mentioned Georgy, something I thought we were going to avoid."

Darcy looked over, his face grim. "I think we've had our fair share of avoiding topics and bringing them up anyway; if you don't mind, I'd rather not get into an argument tonight," he resolved.

"Very commendable, sir, I shan't press the topic any further," I muttered, yawning into my fist.

He looked at me, "I should drive you back to the hotel."

"No, that's okay. I don't want to be _rude_," a beat, "Never mind, too late. She probably already thinks that."

"You just seem exhausted."

"Don't worry yourself too much, Darcy," I snorted, "I'm a big girl and I've pushed the limits on sleep deprivation pretty well."

"I picked up on that," he said, smirking a little. "You've got shadows under your eyes." He actually _pointed_, just for kicks.

"Yeah, thanks for that," I mumbled, rolling my eyes.

"Don't be self-conscious."

"I'm not self-conscious."

"You seem like you are," Darcy observed with a grin. He always seemed to be smiling the most when he was making a joke or an insult at my expense. Always _at _me.

"Well, I'm _not_."

"I hear bickering," Rich mumbled as he entered the room, Collins trailing patiently behind. Rich whipped around and said slowly, "Stay. _Stay_. Good boy."

Collins glared resentfully and marched towards his godmother.

I laughed and broke out into another yawn. Rich raised his eyebrows, "I didn't realize we were so boring. Not that I blame you."

"She's tired from her flight," Darcy corrected.

"Drive her back to the hotel then," Rich answered, shrugging. "_You're _staying there anyway."

"Wait, _what_?" I suddenly asked, sounding a little more accusing than intended. Darcy stared at me coolly, and I cleared my throat. "I just assumed you'd both be staying _here_."

"There's only one guest bedroom and I claimed it first," Rich answered smoothly.

"Oh."

Well, we ended up leaving Rosings fifteen minutes later. It was dark out and I was too dog tired to reprimand Will Darcy for staring at me from the rear view mirror. I actually fell asleep in the car while listening to my iPod. I didn't even realize we were there until I felt Charlotte gently nudging my shoulder, and I blinked up at her groggily. She grinned, "We weren't sure if we should wake you, you looked so out of it. I was this close to asking Will to carry you inside."

"I'm _really _glad you didn't," I mumbled sleepily, "I would've been pretty damn mortified."

"Yeah, that was pretty much my motivation," she answered.

* * *

I slept for nine hours. A blissful, dreamless, _uninterrupted _nine hours. Until the pounding on my door began sharply at eight o'clock and I stumbled out of bed and banged my knee against the bedside table. I limped towards the door angrily. I expected Charlotte's cheery face on the other side and swung it open with a growl. Richard Fitzwilliam beamed from the threshold, a curled fist suspended in the air. He let it fall loosely to his side and grinned. "_Morning_, Lizzy! We're taking you out."

"_Huh_?" I squinted at him, bleary-eyed. I noticed Darcy just out in the hallway, dressed in a pair of jeans, a tee and a jacket. He was looking at me like he was an inch away from exploding in laughter. He covered his mouth with his hand.

"You heard me, sunshine," Rich nodded with enthusiasm I wanted to crush so early in the morning. "We're taking you out. And not in _The Godfather_, Al Pacino sense of the word. We're probably just going to go around town, hang around the beach and harass the locals." He paused, glancing at me quickly. "And if it's wolf whistling you're going for, then I approve. But otherwise, I'd suggest putting some pants on once we go out in public."

At this point, a gear or two chinked in my brain and it occurred to me that I was standing in my oversized soccer tee and polka dotted cotton _underwear_. I squeaked, slammed the door in his face, and quickly wrapped my covers around my waist. By the time I mustered the courage to open the door again, my face was probably all shades of red and Rich Fitzwilliam's was all shades of _smug_. I glared at him, "I hate you, and I've only known you for half a day."

"We have that effect on people," he nodded grimly. "Go get changed. We'll be waiting."

"That sounds so _creepy_."

"I know."


	16. Oh, and Time's a Loaded Gun

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Sixteen -- _Oh, and Time's a Loaded Gun_)

Richard Fitzwilliam was a man with an expert sense of planning. You couldn't exactly guess this from first impression. After all, he was a gentleman who barely remembered to tuck in his shirt on most occasions. He was partial to spontaneous outbursts and impulsive getaway trips to Las Vegas in the middle of tax season. But in the case of Lizzy Bennet, the spry Philadelphian his cousin had been acting so _strangely _in front of, rest assured that something was safely tucked up his sleeve.

And Darcy knew it.

"You never _said _you were going to invite her," he argued quietly, folding his arms across his chest as they waited at the floor's lobby by the elevators. Rich regarded him coolly, beamed, and didn't say anything. He had practically ambushed Will's room at seven thirty that morning, yanked the curtains open so that sunlight temporarily blinded him, and had forced him out of bed with a swift bombardment of pillows he had possibly mistaken for ammo. By all intents and purposes, Richard Fitzwilliam was pretty much the snotty brother Will Darcy had never had. He was almost thankful his parents hadn't had the opportunity to procreate after Georgy was born.

Richard Fitzwilliam had _also _conveniently avoided mentioning that he planned to include Elizabeth Bennet in the day's activities. He led Darcy to believe that he had pressed the 'L' button in the elevator; when it released a _ping!_ at the seventh floor instead, Rich had darted out into the hallway before Darcy could even register his surroundings. The rest, of course, could easily be figured out. Maybe not the fact that the girl herself would stumble out of her bed and greet them without _pants_, but her mortification was actually kind of endearing. In an incredibly bizarre way.

"What _I _don't understand," Rich said smoothly, "is why you're so pissy about including Lizzy. She's a pretty great girl. A little rough around the edges and a bit blunt, but that's kind of what I like about her. Plus, she insults you a lot. It makes me _giggle_."

"I'm trying to find a more original way of telling you that I hate you."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not very well," Darcy muttered.

"Listen, if you're so dead stubborn about this situation, _you _can stay in your room and watch infomercials all day," Rich suggested cheerfully. "I honestly couldn't give a damn, Will. Lizzy and I get along pretty well; I could show her around. We'd have a wonderful time."

There was a lengthy pause, and then a curt, "Fine. That's fine."

His cousin smiled slowly, "It doesn't bother you _at all_ that I'd be alone with her."

"Why would it bother me?" asked Darcy, positively aloof.

"See, the thing about these girls from out of town," baited Rich, brushing imaginary lint off of his shirt, "they're so _easy _to take under your wing, you know? Maybe I'd even ask her out to dinner. I think she likes me, what do you think? I think I'm a pretty attractive, sharp minded guy." He straightened the edges of his jacket and trilled off an atrocious English accent, "We'd get along _famously_, wouldn't we, old chap?"

"I think you're an _imbecile_," Darcy clarified sharply, avoiding his cousin's eye. "But you can do what you want, Rich. _I don't care._"

Rich nodded understandingly and did his best to look unaffected. He popped his lips boredly, stared at the ceiling, counted tiles, attempted to think about the weather. And then he promptly _gave up_ and blurted: "You are _such _a fucking liar!"

Darcy was about to contest to this when Elizabeth Bennet could be heard turning just at the corner, mumbling a string of expletives. She was wearing worn jeans and a tee and was shuffling, barefoot, down the hall. She barely greeted them before she tugged a pair of flip flops out of her oversized bag. "Hold this," she said quickly, hurling the pair at Darcy. He caught one and dropped the other, reaching for it beneath an armchair.

By the time Lizzy had wrestled her hair into a bun, dug out her cell phone and rested her shades up at the top of her head, Rich was making a big show out of examining his watch and impatiently holding open the metallic doors of the nearest elevator. She apologized and entered after him, Darcy following suit. She had even forgotten that she was barefoot until he handed her pair of bright yellow flip flops back to her wordlessly. She mumbled a 'thank you' and slipped them on.

"We should probably get some coffee in you," advised Rich, punching in a number. "Your motor skills rival those of the living dead."

"That would be _fantastic_," she murmured, yawning against her fist. She perked up suddenly, "_Oh!_ Do you know if Charlotte's coming?"

"Afraid to brave the day with just the Darcy-Fitzwilliam cousins?" Rich grinned slyly. When she rolled her eyes, he explained: "I think my aunt invited her over. Mostly because she needs an audience there to boast to about her spectacular landscape and past accomplishments. You should be thankful that we got you out when we did."

"I'm _very _thankful," Lizzy assured, "I just feel sorry for Charlotte."

"Well, she's here for a reason, isn't she?" Darcy said coolly, meeting Lizzy's eye when she glanced sharply at him from over her shoulder. "You really don't have to look at me like that. I know that Charlotte wants a teaching position. I don't think there's anything wrong with it."

"I do," Lizzy muttered quickly. The elevator doors opened at the lobby and she stepped out.

A quick run to a corner Starbucks twenty minutes later, and Elizabeth Bennet was slightly less comatose. As Darcy made his way towards a back corner table, armed with their orders, he watched Rich mumble something in Lizzy's ear and she cracked up. He caught snippets of their conversation and rolled his eyes when he realized that Rich was babbling about his heroic endeavors in forcing him out of bed that morning.

"He sleeps kind of like a bear," Rich reenacted, hunching over. "All sprawled out, y'know? It's hysterical. He's such a whiny '_five more minutes, Mom_' kind of guy."

"Not _all _of us have the morning person gene," answered Darcy curtly, setting the carrier on the table. Lizzy took her order happily, folding her legs Indian style on her armchair. She took a sip and winced, "Actually, I have to agree. I'm downright murderous in the mornings. You got the _good _version of that today."

"That's pretty hard to believe."

"Well, believe it."

"I wonder what would happened if I made Collins knock on your door instead," reflected Rich curiously. "It's good for a future attempt, don't you think? Almost like a crash dummy. But I'm not sure if he would have been as smooth as I was about the whole underwear thing."

"You weren't smooth; you were _annoying_," said Lizzy, looking as if she was actually willing herself not to blush. She rolled her eyes and set her cup aside patiently, "O_kay_. I was _really_ sleepy, I thought it was _Charlotte _at the door, and I had _banged _my knee into the bedside table on my way up. Excuse me for being mildly disoriented and forgetting my _pants_."

"Why are you making such a big deal about it?" Rich laughed. "I really don't care. You're such a prude."

"Because you're _looking _at me like you just saw me in my skivvies."

"I _did _just see you in your skivvies."

"Can you hand me that?" Darcy interrupted, pointing to the abandoned newspaper at the table beside them. Lizzy leaned over and snatched it, dropping it in front of him. She took a long sip of coffee and leaned in close, inspecting the weather column. She didn't think twice about the fact that she was two inches from his face. He cleared his throat.

"Damn, twenty-_eight _degrees in Philly. And it's only December." Lizzy sighed, leaning back in her chair, "In a weird way, I miss it. I always like cold weather when I'm someplace warm and warm weather when I'm someplace cold."

"We're a nation of fickle individuals," muttered Rich into his coffee. "Join the club. We have merchandise now."

"I should call up my sisters," Lizzy murmured to herself, tracing the edge of the table with a fingertip.

Rich looked up, "There are _more _like you? Dear Lord. How many?"

"Four," Darcy replied automatically.

His cousin snorted at him, "Got her entire family tree drawn on your hand, Will? Quick, show me the first cousins."

Darcy scowled and pushed his cup away, and Lizzy cracked up. "No, I'm pretty sure he couldn't care _less_," she grinned, "he probably just has a super fine tuned memory." Darcy opened his mouth to protest, thought the better of it, and looked down quietly.

"Not really," Rich said, mouth turning upward. "He can't even remember the name of the girl I dated for three years."

"That's ridiculous. We've been over this three times. It's Tiffany," Darcy said, clearing his throat.

"_Wrong._"

"Carla, then."

"Oh, just give up," Rich sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're seriously _that _proud that you won't admit you forgot?"

Darcy looked up in thought, suddenly declaring, "It's definitely Sarah. That sounds right."

Rich grinned widely, brown eyes bright, "That's it!"

"Really?"

"_No_," he snapped._  
_

"What happened to this nameless girlfriend?" Lizzy asked, taking Darcy's newspaper for herself. When he looked up at her quickly, she gave him an expression between an apologetic smile and a wince and unfolded it anyway.

"You mean _Tara_?" Rich glared pointedly at his cousin. "She fell for one of my best friends."

"Oh, that's bleak," she said, looking up from her article.

"Yeah, this best friend was a _woman_, might I add." Lizzy winced visibly this time, and Rich sighed, "I know."

"I don't see why you're riding in the pity wagon," Darcy mumbled, rolling up his sleeves carefully. "You _knew _she was bisexual before you started dating."

"I like that he remembers her sexual orientation and _not _her name," Rich muttered to Lizzy, pointing. "How messed up is that?"

"You're probably the same way," Lizzy laughed, and Darcy cocked his head at her rare instance of defending him. She met his eye across the table, and her glance shifted to the back of his cup. Then she brightened and snatched it away from him. He gaped at her.

"You're so _grabby_," Rich laughed.

"I'll give it back in a _second_," she murmured, eyes squinted at the fine print in the back of Darcy's decaf. "I always read these." She pointed deliberately to the itty bit of paragraph under the heading of_ The Way I See It #204_. "I collect quotes, so these tend to come in handy. On the back of every cup."

Rich looked at the back of his own cup, made a face and set it aside, "Mine's some shit about education. Let's hear Will's."

"Hmm," Lizzy skimmed through, trailing the text with a finger, "_You can choose between being a victim of destiny or an adventurer who is fighting for something important,_" she finished, narrowing her eyes, "Paulo Coehlo."

"_The Alchemist_," Darcy said. Lizzy looked at him, so he clarified: "I read one of his books."

"I can't deal with that shit at nine o'clock in the morning," Rich complained, slumping in his seat. "I don't like preachy motivation with my coffee. What's next: _You must _be _the change you wish to see in the world_," he declared emphatically, clutching his chest.

"Don't knock Ghandi," Lizzy warned.

"You're just not a very motivated person," said Darcy, ducking artfully when his cousin flicked a tattered piece of used napkin at him. It bounced off of the back of his chair and right in front of an elderly woman at the table behind them. Will cleared his throat and apologized, reaching across to retrieve it. Lizzy snickered.

"Wait a minute," Rich suddenly realized, raising an eyebrow at Lizzy. "You _collect _quotes? What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I like being motivated," she said cheerfully. "Well, not really. I have a notebook, and it's jam packed with stuff I've listened to and wanted to write down. You won't find any Dr. Phil or Deepak Chopra in there. It's not my cup of tea."

"Cup of coffee," Will said.

"That's pretty weird," Rich teased. Lizzy rolled her eyes and reached over towards her bag, digging through it. She pulled out a purple spiral notebook and clunked it right in front of Darcy, who looked up at her apprehensively. She egged him on to open it, and so he did.

He rifled through a couple of pages and realized that about three quarters of the notebook were completely _filled _with her tiny neat scribbling of quotes. All sorts of them. Ones from films were prevalent, along with song lyrics, comedians, actors and political figures. The margins were practically brimming with them. Darcy found a particular one by Mark Twain and the corners of his mouth twinged upward.

"_I thoroughly disapprove of duels_," he read. "_If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him_."

Rich made a face, "Okay, _also _not something I'd like to hear with my morning coffee." He took the notebook from Darcy and leafed through, raising an eyebrow. "_You can tell a lot about a fellow's character by his way of eating jellybeans_, Ronald Regan -- Lizzy, what the _fuck_?"

"I _like _that one," she defended. "It makes me smile."

"You have a ridiculous amount of U2 lyrics in here," he mumbled, flipping a page. "And Dave Matthews. It's almost sad."

She snatched the notebook back and glared, "You don't have to be an asshole about it. You're the one who asked."

"Don't get me wrong, it's cute in an exponentially _pointless _and time consuming way," Rich said dully, but Lizzy just rolled her eyes.

Darcy asked to see it again and she handed it back. He revisited ones she had starred, most of which by Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He spent the next couple of minutes reading in silence before his cousin interrupted.

"Okay, my young'un philosophers," Rich said, getting up out of his seat to stretch. "Let's blow this popsicle stand. I already reserved three tickets at Pickwood, and they are _not _going to waste." When nobody felt like budging, he sighed, "I mean it! Trash your coffees, please and thanks."

* * *

Pickwood Theme Park was one of those rare slices of land that hadn't been demolished and replaced by shiny new condos, as you would often expect of parks that have been looming around in California since the 1970s. The fact that Rich and Darcy had spent childhood summers there was kind of cute too, but it gave me the impression that I was treading on some well tracked nostalgia here. Not that Darcy would let on. In fact, the ferris wheel alone had him looking pretty green. We had to bypass that straight from the beginning.

"It's not like a corkscrew roller coaster or anything," I murmured, waiting with Rich as Darcy was at a kiosk up ahead, buying bottled water. "I think he's just being paranoid."

We had been at the shoddy theme park for a little over an hour, and it reminded me of a knock-off, poorly recreated version of Coney Island back in its heyday. It was kind of adorable in all its mediocrity, and the weather was warm, and I was enjoying Richard Fitzwilliam's company. Maybe even Darcy's. It was hard to say. He was being remarkably... _nice_. Selectively mute, but there had been no crossfire of insults and comebacks. Maybe we had built a bridge and walked over it. Or maybe Richard had that mediation effect like Jane, that knack for being a catalyst for peace.

Thinking about Jane sent a rush of homesickness, deep in the pit of my stomach. I tried to ignore it, and Rich distracted me.

"Hoh boy, you're going to feel bad in a second," Rich explained, grinning secretively. "It's _not _that he's paranoid. Will actually had a full-blown childhood incident." He pointed out across the maze of rides, out to the looming ferris wheel in the distance. "See, that thing is _really_ shitty and mangled. Will was thirteen and visiting the de Bourghs with Georgy here many summers back; the day it got _jammed_. He was at the _very top_. Nearly scared him to death. I think they were stuck for an hour."

"God," I muttered, folding my arms. I couldn't even imagine what fear of heights could be sparked from that. And I hated Rich for actually managing to make me feel like a shithead. "That's terrible. Imagine how Georgy felt."

"She was five," a deep voice said, starting me. Will Darcy had joined us again as Rich was explaining, and he handed a bottle of water to his cousin. He was smiling ironically. "Georgy was five years old and she _puked_ on me. Not that I blamed her, she was petrified. And now I have a really embarrassing phobia as a souvenir." He was pensive for a moment, glancing out towards the rides.

"Elevator shafts," I suddenly blurted. Darcy stared at me peculiarly and I cleared my throat, "I'm _terrified_ of empty elevator shafts. Sometimes I have dreams when I'm falling into them and they never end. I never rode in elevators until I was about twelve."

"Are you trying to make me feel better about being scared shitless about a tame amusement park ride?"

A pause and then, "Is it working?"

"Kind of," Darcy smiled.

He had a nice smile too. That was the thing. You get so used to seeing somebody _sulk _that anything else is something entirely unpredictable. At that moment, I probably found him good looking for the first time in a couple of months. He was relaxed and the light was hitting his eyes strangely and the longer I thought about it, the more uncomfortable it made me. I cleared my throat, took a sip of water, and asked what we were going to do next.

"I have no idea," sighed Rich, leaning forward on his knees. "I planned up until Pickwood, and I'm starting to realize just how _crappy _all the rides are. It's so different when you're a kid. They did have a pretty bitching House of Mirrors back in the day, if you're still in."

"It sounds groundbreaking, Richie," Darcy sighed, taking a seat between us.

"_Richie_?" I repeated, cracking up. When he cast me a strict warning glance, I couldn't help but say, "What is this, _Happy Days_?"

"_Funny_," he mumbled. "As if I haven't heard the Richie Cunningham cracks for the majority of my life."

"It could be worse," Darcy reflected. "People could be calling you Dick. I personally think that's more appropriate."

"I personally think you should be quiet."

"I personally think you should make me," Darcy muttered under his breath, taking a sip from his own water bottle. Rich did his best to serve him a death glare, failed miserably, and settled for socking him weakly in the shoulder. Darcy raised an eyebrow and snorted. I smiled, shook my head and looked out towards the horizon again.

Soon enough, we decided to ditch the park and head back to the hotel. It was half past three, and I still wanted to catch up with Charlotte, shower and have dinner. Maybe settle into bed early with a crappy rental and phone Jane. I had been avoiding my phone to stave off the homesickness, but it was still coming at full force. It wasn't even for my house. It was just for _Jane_, who arguably was my home. I wanted to know what she was up to.

But because I have some freakish affinity for being lulled to sleep by car vibrations, I _might_ have lost consciousness on the way back. I couldn't help it. One moment Rich was arguing with Will up front about the correct lyrics to the _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ theme song, and the next, my head was softly padded and I was lying out across the back seat. When I finally woke up, I gathered that we were parked right at the Sheraton's rotunda. I made out Darcy's face looming just above my own, quizzical, blue-eyed -- and upside down. I sat up _very _quickly, which unfortunately brought on a dizzy spell I could have easily avoided.

"What are you -- _Ow_," I snapped, pressing my hands against my forehead. He knelt down my by side and frowned, and I explained: "I sat up too quickly. It's one of those spinny, vertigo things. Give me a second."

"Focus on my face," Darcy suddenly said.

"Sorry?" I glanced up sharply, about to laugh. Doing so only made it worse, "_Damn it_."

"Look at me."

"How is _that _going to help?" I argued, clenching my eyes shut.

"Lizzy, just _look _at me," he ordered.

Grudgingly, I glanced up. I met those absurdly blue eyes and stared for a good fifteen seconds, and he didn't look away. When _I _tried to, he steadied my head with both of his hands on both sides of my face. I felt strange, and his hands were warm, and my face heated up, but I think this was mostly out of embarrassment. The corner of his mouth pulled upward and he advised, "Oh and _breathe_. That would be good."

My surroundings started to slow down. I said curiously, "Hey, it's working. _Weird_."

"I'm not _wrong _about this, you know," Darcy insisted. He looked at me again and I smirked, rolling my eyes. I wasn't having a spell anymore, and I think he knew this, but it took him awhile to drop his hands. Darcy suddenly stared at me very intently, and looked like he was _just _on the verge of saying something -- but then he quickly got up in one fluid motion and I nearly stumbled forward, catching myself at the last moment. _Graceful._

"Where did _that _come from?" I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. I wasn't really sure which incident I meant.

"It helps to focus on a central point," Darcy explained quickly, burying his hands in his pockets. "It gives your brain more visual perception and gets your balance back."

"Oh." _Okay then._ "Thanks."

* * *

Weary and exhausted, I finally climbed into bed around eight o'clock, a generally unthinkable hour back home. But the day had worn me out, so I took a long hot shower, accessed cable television and dialed up Jane while watching a rerun of _Seinfeld_ upside down on my mattress. Kramer's entrances were more interesting to watch this way. And then Jane picked up.

"_Finally, you called_," she said happily, and I grinned. "_I was going to call, but you know me, Lizzy. Making the first move is too much of a commitment_."

"Of course," I said dryly. "It's a big step in our relationship. And I _miss_ you. What's going on?"

"_I'm a little sunburnt. It sucks_," she sighed, sounding fidgety. "_Otherwise, it's all pretty fantastic. Benny and Trish are being _so_ sweet to me, Lizzy. This place is absolutely gorgeous. I didn't realize how much I missed the beach until now._" There was a happy, carefree spark back into her voice. Something still seemed to be weighing her down, but it didn't seem quite as affecting. "_How are things at Rosings? Braving Collins still?_"

"Well, I haven't murdered him yet," I laughed, rolling my eyes. "It's honestly not that bad. I barely even saw him today. I can't say much about the rest of the week, but you know. We'll be back by Christmas. I have no intentions of spending it here." I had been considering it for the past couple of days. I wanted nothing more than to spend the holidays back in our squeaky clean, Clorox scrubbed townhouse, with a stack of Christmasy DVDs and hot cocoa. It would be cozy. Jane interrupted my thinking:

"_You've been spending time with Charlotte then?_"

I winced, propping myself right side up. And the lie slipped out before I had any chance to challenge it my head: "Yeah. I've been with Charlotte." I suppose my first instinct had been to mention Richard Fitzwilliam. Which would have meant mentioning Will Darcy and his relation to Catherine de Bourgh. Which would have triggered questions about Charlie, the _least_ preferred topic I would choose to burden my sister with on her winter holiday. It was a slippery slope. But good intentions don't always prevent you from feeling like shit. I moped for a good thirty seconds.

"_I miss you_," Jane sighed. "_I miss you so much that when you're not around, there's a Lizzylike voice in the back of my head making snooty social commentary on everything you would find stupid or pointless. It's all your fault_."

"That sounds so Sci-Fi. And _creepy_," I laughed, leaning my back against the headboard. "But it's nice to know that I would be your alternate personality if you were ever diagnosed with schizophrenia. You'd be mine, just saying."

"_Aww, that's sweet_," a beat. "_God, we're _weird_._ _Seriously_."

"Let's blame Dad's genes," I offered, smiling.

"_Whatever sounds convenient to you, Lizzy,_" Jane laughed.

Fifteen minutes later, I let her go. Having a three hour time advantage also means impeding on somebody else's bedtime. So I settled in under the covers myself and drifted off. I dreamt that Wickham and Georgy were trapped in the highest point of the rickety ferris wheel at Pickwood. Georgy had tears streaming down her face and Wickham was staring off absent-mindedly, unable to hear her. When I woke up in a cold sweat, I blamed exhaustion for warping Richard's story, and I forced it out of my mind.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is probably the calmest chapter you're going to get for a little while, guys. Next up is some rocky territory. Once again, thanks for all the wonderful feedback. Much appreciated. :)


	17. We Pine for Higher Ceilings

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Seventeen -- _We Pine for Higher Ceilings_)

Nine o'clock, Saturday morning, halfway between a poppy seed bagel and an infomercial, it occurred to me that I was about to endure a very strange day. First came the three consecutive raps on the door. I got up, checked myself (yee, pants) and squinted into the peephole. Collins' face, rounded and bug eyed, stared back.

If the first person you see on a particularly placid Saturday happens to be Billy Collins, rest assured that you're going to have a strange, ominous day. I suppressed a shiver and unlatched the door, leaning against the frame.

"Good morning, Elizabeth," he said pertly, lacing his hands in front of himself.

I took a whopping bite out of my bagel and gave a loud, crumb spewing hello. He smiled bitterly and fished a piece of cloth out of his front pocket. "You're just doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

I cocked my head, inspecting what he held. "Wow, you carry a hanky. I thought those were extinct." I leaned in closer, "Is _that _-- it is! Embroidered initials. Well, I'll be. Not only do you have a vendetta against Kleenex _but _it's stylin' too."

"Are you just about finished?" Collins asked slowly, jutting a thumb backward into the hallway. "I have to be back at Rosings in twenty minutes to assist Mrs. de Bourgh with a _very _important financial matter."

"What's your point, Billy? I'm fresh out of medals."

"I need you to stay with Charlotte." I guess my death glare was seeping in, because he suddenly correct himself with, "_Please _stay with her. She seems a little, ah, worse for wear this morning. I'm sure she could use your company."

"Is the lady shitfaced?" I asked pleasantly, picking a crumb off of my tee. "Because that's what I'm getting out of this conversation."

Collins looked strained, "She may have had a couple of Cosmopolitans last night."

"And you _let _her?" I asked, disgusted. "Charlotte's the champion of lightweights, Collins. She gets one whiff of a wine cooler and falls on her ass. She's tiny."

"Regardless," he held up his hand, "she's next door. Good bye." At that, he turned smartly on his heel and walked (but mostly pranced) back to the elevator lobby. And this was one of those token moments I really wished I had the telepathic ability to lift people into the air and hurl them fifty feet away. But no dice. I sighed and closed the door.

* * *

Charlotte Lucas's face had imprint marks from the wrinkles of her pillow case. Her eyes were screwed shut, her auburn hair looked like it had been nested in by a small animal, and she writhed in absolute _pain _when I happily shoved the curtains open, flooding the room with light.

"Wakey, wakey!" I beamed, flinging a sweater at her from the coffee table. It landed on her face. She didn't move. "Eggs and bakey!" I prompted, nudging the room service cart to the side of the bed. I was a woman with a plan; I had come prepared.

She made no response.

"Actually, I lied. No eggs and bacon. But we have oatmeal." I waved the Quaker Oats package in her face. _Finally_, a glimmer of a reaction; she extended her middle finger. "Oh come _on_, Charlotte, don't give me that. This is some bitching oatmeal. You see this Quaker? This _Quaker _has a duty. He wants to feed you peaches and cream. He wants to _nourish _your epic hangover."

"He can go fuck himself," Charlotte bit out, shoving her head under the pillow.

"Take that back."

"_No_."

"I don't think we can be friends anymore if you're going to be blatantly disrespecting my breakfast guys like this," I said, sitting by her side. "What's next, a shot at Cap'n Crunch?" I tried to unknot the ends of her long hair. She turned meekly on her side, smeared mascara rimming her gray eyes.

"I feel like shit."

"You look like it too."

"I feel like something chewed me up and spat me out last night."

"Would that have been _before _you downed the cosmos? Or was it tequila," I grinned, smoothing her hair back. Something occurred to me and I snorted. "Ha, tequila. Tequila _mockingbird_. Get it?"

She opened one eye blearily, "Lizzy?"

"Yes, Charlotte?"

"Shut up."

I had come prepared for this too. My temper was shelved. Leaning over beside the cart, I withdrew a teabag from a mug that had been steeping for a couple of minutes, ordered Charlotte to sit up, and carefully shoved it into her hands. "Okay, cranky. Drink up and tell me what in the _hell _possessed you to drink like you did. Did it have anything to do with the fact that you spent nearly the entire day with Catherine?"

Charlotte instantly scowled and examined a strand of her red hair wordlessly. She tucked her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around them. After a moment, she said: "Do I really have to recount the entire day to you, or are you satisfied with Cliff's Notes?"

"Well," I considered, "half of my genetic makeup _is _Faith Bennet's. As a direct result of that, I'm part itty bitty prying gossip whore. Respectfully, of course. _But _I feel you. Cliff's Notes can be tolerated."

"You know, a simple _yes _or _no _would have sufficed," Charlotte said, smiling crookedly. She sighed and looked down, tracing circles on her knee. "So basically, around evening time I wanted to stun gun myself yesterday. This woman was just constantly outlining how mediocre I was. I swear to God." She straightened primly and sneered, a perfect likeness, her tone steely and high-pitched: "_Honestly, Charlotte. No recommendations? A barista. Not even volun_teering_ work at other schools? And you expect me to give you a free ticket to this _elite _position? Why. Because you're dating my godson_?"

So, I know this makes me a bit of a bitch, but I couldn't help but smile a little at this. It was just painfully ironic. After all, Charlotte had got what was coming to her. Not _only_ had Catherine de Bourgh seen through her plan like a gossamer curtain, but she had inspected and prodded at it with a magnifying glass.

Of course, the delivery was about 60% Cruella de Vil and 40% Miranda Priestly, to which I offered Charlotte nothing but my deepest sympathies. I sat next to her with my back against the headboard, her head falling onto my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "Sorry, kid. That bites. ...Now what about Collins?"

"What _about _Collins?" Charlotte said wearily. At my raised eyebrow, she said, "Oh. _Oh_. You think I'm going to take him out like yesterday's garbage." A thoughtful pause, "It'd be typical of me, wouldn't it?"

"What do you want me to say?" I asked quietly.

She slumped, scratching her forehead. "The thing is," she tried, flustered. "I don't think I was lying, Lizzy. He's not the typical guy I go after, _true_, but he's been very good to me. I guess sometimes all a girl wants is some loyalty and companionship. And support; _that _backfired in my face."

"How do you mean?"

She extended a hand, "You saw him bolt for Rosings like a bat out of hell. He sides with his godmother, Lizzy. She doesn't approve, he doesn't approve. He's like a fucking trained poodle."

I wondered if he pissed on command.

"Forget it," Charlotte sighed, twirling a split end absently. "I just want to get back _home_. I miss my apartment. I miss Scout; I feel bad for dumping him on my neighbors. I forgot to tell them that he wets the carpet." I snorted, and she continued: "I even miss the cold. You know the feeling when your knuckles are tingly and raw because it's so freezing out?"

"I hate that feeling," I mumbled, folding my arms. "It's like the wind is raping your face."

"...That's disturbing, Lizzy."

"Yeah, well, you know me best."

She smiled and winced suddenly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "God, I need aspirin." When I made a move to go get some, she suddenly snatched my hand: "_Oh!_ I never asked. How was your day with Richard and Darcy yesterday? Considering we didn't get a report back home about an assassination attempt."

"Oh. It was ...unusual."

"Unusually good or unusually bad?"

"Unusually unusual," I said cryptically. I got off the bed and stretched, "I don't know. I enjoyed myself. I like Rich, he's kind of an asshole sweetheart. You know the type. Also, Will Darcy skeeves me out because he's got split personality disorder. And there was that whole lacking pants fiasco. _Oh_, and we should take you to Pickwood. They have good cotton candy. Like, not gummy, starchy kind, but _good _kind."

Charlotte's face looked apprehensive. She raised one finger, "Okay _one_, back up. _Two_, I'm not even going to ask about the pants. And _three_, what do you mean by Will Darcy having split personalities?"

"Just that he _does_," I said, thinking it obvious. "One minute he's reigning shithead supreme, and the next, you kind of -- well, I _guess _you--"

"You like him," Charlotte finished, smiling slowly.

"I do _not_," I said angrily, crossing my arms over my chest. "He was just freakishly nice for a rare second or two. Threw me off guard."

"Yeah, God forbid somebody you pegged as an asshole starts to be _nice_. What a curve ball."

"Whatever," I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck. "I figured it's all because of Rich. You know how Jane has that crazy talented way of mediating just by being in the room?"

"A catalyst for peace," elaborated Charlotte, yawning into her hand.

"Exactly," I pointed. "Rich is kind of like that. He mellows people out."

"He's a good guy, I think," she replied, rubbing her forehead. "Fuck, Lizzy, I'd really appreciate some Advil. Stat."

"Stat?" I snorted, reaching over her coffee table. "What is this, _Grey's_ goddamn _Anatomy_? One or two?"

"Three, please."

"I'll give you two." I shook out two liquid gells and disappeared into the bathroom, filling up a glass from tap. When I returned, I sat at the edge of her mattress, watching her. "You know," I said, hugging my knees to my chest, "we should go back home. Just snip the holiday short. Don't get me wrong, I'd like a couple more days of get away time."

"I don't want to leave just yet," she gulped her last pill, wincing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up. "We could just hang out on the beach and stuff. I could move to your room."

"That would be pretty excellent. As long as you don't kick me off the bed or anything," I grinned. "I should call Rich and ask him if there's anything else fun to do around town. Shopping and restaurants get a little mind numbing after awhile. I should call him."

"How about the beach?"

"Not now though," I winced, "I hate it in the middle of the day. It's crowded and hot. I like it at night."

"Evening shore walks?" Charlotte smiled, taking a gulp from her glass. "That's one thing we don't get back in the city. Unless you go wading in the Schuylkill, but something tells me it's not the same. A little unsanitary."

I smiled, picking threads from the coverlet. And suddenly, a random thought popped into my head. I didn't know where it came from -- maybe bottled up curiosity. Maybe because of my strange dreams. But I looked up and asked tentatively, "Charlotte, have you heard from George Wickham?"

She looked up sharply, "_George_? Not since he quit a month ago."

I felt dull shock. "Sorry? I thought he just took a separate shift."

"You didn't know?" asked Charlotte. "He quit. Came in on a Thursday, handed in his uniform, took his last paycheck and bolted. He didn't even say why. I haven't seen him since."

I didn't know why this was making me feel so anxious, but Charlotte noticed and laid a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I've just been having weird dreams lately and ...it's stupid. Forget it." I smiled, getting to my feet. "You know what, I'm going to go see if I can call Rich. We need to do something not suck-y today. It's our vacation too." Truth be told, I was just eager to distract myself.

And just to reaffirm my beliefs that the day was going to be unusual ("Tore up from the floor up?" suggested Charlotte), the notes began to arrive around noon. Completely unexpected, neon green bits of stationery were jammed underneath both of our doors, each with the same spidery handwriting. I had been in Charlotte's room, catching up with reading. She was curled up, sleeping away some queasiness. Suddenly two knocks were heard, followed by the crumpled sound of paper being stuffed against carpet. I got up and unlocked the door, but nobody was there. I scanned the note:

_Lizzy.  
_

_Proceed to lobby. Ask concierge for package #1749. He will have further instructions waiting._

_Fichard Ritzwilliam_

_PS: Don't be alarmed by my cleverly coded name. It will come to you eventually._

I snorted, grinning. The mountain had come to Mohammad. And I wasn't patient enough to let Charlotte sleep off remnants of her hangover. I nearly shoved her off the bed and forced her to get dressed, chasing her off into the hallway. She might have wanted to murder me by the time we got into the lobby, more excited than we should have been. The concierge was a man with slicked back graying hair, who smiled secretly when we rattled off the number and presented us with a slip of a package sealed in colorful wrapping paper. Charlotte tore it off, exposing a voice recorder.

"Not very original," the concierge scrutinized. I laughed and pushed play, Rich's static-y voice filling the place: _I'm so good, aren't I? I mean, who needs Sean Connery? I _am_ James Bond. I'm pretty much the shit._ There was a pause, and then, _I hope you waited to take this into your room before you played it. I hope you're not in the lobby or anything. God, you probably are, aren't you? Fine. We'll make do. What you need to do, ladies, is meet me at the address my good friend Harrison has so nicely set aside. I have also disclosed a separate package. Ask for that too. Oh, and wear sneakers, 'kay? Thanks much._ There was a click, and then nothing.

"_I'm_ Harrison, in case you didn't realize," the man said brightly, pointing to his nameplate. "He's a very strange young man, isn't he?"

"That's a bit of an understatement," mumbled Charlotte, rubbing her eyes. She looked up, "Wait, so, seriously? Your parents named you Harrison."

"My parents named me Raymond. I'm an _Indiana Jones_ fan."

"Charlotte, don't judge," I turned. "What's the next package?"

He knelt down and dropped it onto the counter. It wasn't even wrapped. It was -- "War paint?" Charlotte snorted, grimacing. "What the hell?"

"Here's the address," Harrison pressed a neatly folded slip of paper into my palm. "If you want, I can arrange a car."

* * *

The corner of Weston and 79th was a suburban plaza with one stellar, openly glaring (in neon lights, no less) focal point: a gaudy laser tag megaplex maze of _doom_. I had to push Charlotte's jaw up. Will Darcy was waiting just outside by the bench, his head in his hands. He looked like he had been dragged there against his will. In all likely reality, he probably had. He winced and greeted us, looking uncomfortable as usual.

"What gives, Darcy?" I handed him the tape recorder. "Is he serious about this?"

"My cousin has a problem," he paused. "He's a little crazy."

"How much did he pay you to come here?" asked Charlotte coyly.

"He didn't pay me..."

She raised both eyebrows.

"Twenty bucks." Darcy looked at me quickly, "I had to get my money back from that poached salmon bet two days ago."

"Way to stay strong," I made a fist. "Might as well see what the hell he's on about." At that, Charlotte and I followed Darcy inside. The inside was gargantuan and pitch black, decorated with neon, pulsing strobe lights, a recreational arcade and separate dinner party rooms. It reminded me of the birthday parties I had gone to as a kid. Actually, it _was _for kids. Two boys who looked to be about ten suddenly darted past, cackling and whipping each other with glow sticks. "Happy Birthday" was being sung in the next room over, and a little girl was wailing because her brother had taken all of her tokens. Darcy looked like he was fighting a migraine.

And then Rich showed up, and his cousin just about pooped a brick.

God, what to say about our harebrained Fichard Ritzwilliam? Somewhere between the spray painted tube socks, Nike shocks, war paint and the wifebeater, we realized that there was _no _possible way that we were going to back down from this. Darcy opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and opened it again. He passed a hand over his eyes.

"You can't be serious," Charlotte said blankly.

"Oh, I am, Miss Lucas," Rich said, happily handing her a pink ticket. "I am _quite _serious."

"Isn't the age limit for laser tag twelve or something?" I asked, and he held out my ticket warily.

"Are you guys going to bitch about this? This was _very _cleverly planned. I didn't even tell _Will _about it, and he's like the M to my James Bond right now."

"I'm Judi Dench," Darcy muttered dryly.

"That you are. Now take the tickets and follow me."

The team room was divided into three separate divisions (or colors): yellow, green and blue. Risers for each team were predominantly filled with preteens from their birthday parties, scoffing and showing off and giggling and pushing each other onto the floor. Our group was too big and had to be divvied up. Charlotte and I took a seat with the green team, and Rich practically dragged Darcy to the blue. Then he flitted over to my side, quickly swiped two streaks of war paint on my cheeks and darted back before I could throttle him. I slumped, defeated.

"I hate you so much," Darcy was saying.

"You'll love me for this," beamed Rich. A thirteen year old girl stared at him and he raised his hand for a high five. She scooted away. "Brat," he mumbled.

The rest was delightfully nostalgic. An attending employee entered the team room and rattled off instructions. He pointed out the emergency exits and addressed medical concerns and mentioned some strange horror story about an epileptic child and strobe lights that left 3/4 of the room horrified. He clapped his hands and said, "Okay then!" leading us to suit up, where we strapped in our vests and powered up our guns. Some nervous energy was sifting through the room, and I began to get giddy and excited. Even Charlotte was grinning, pointing at Richie: "Your ass is grass."

"_You're_ the one on the green team, Lucas, not me," he said wryly, clicking both ends of his vest. Dotted blue lights flickered across the screen at his chest, and he examined it. "Number 67, ladies. Remember that one. That will be the number absolutely dominating the scoreboards."

"Hey, Rich?" interrupted Darcy, grudgingly strapping in.

"Yeah?" he whirled around.

"Shut up."

"Save that temper for the game, Judi," Rich clapped him on the shoulder.

* * *

If memory serves correctly, there are two distinct ways of playing laser tag. You can either:

1. Get your Rambo on and ambush and alienate other players.

2. Be a pussy and play the defensive by lurking around your team's base.

Charlotte was all over #2 like jam on toast. I tried to force her out, but she's ridiculously stubborn. So I ditched and followed the trail of other greens, up on the higher level. The absolutely _awesome _thing about this place was probably its two floors of maze like, pitch black winding corridors, speckled with those neon strobe lights these people seem to have a strange fetish for. And with techno music blaring in the background, people got a little hardcore. It was intense. We had battle cries.

I skulked around with another girl a few years younger, peeking over the steeped stairwell. I spotted two yellows to the side, raised my gun and fired, setting off their vests. They groaned and darted off, and the girl flashed me a smile. "I want to go deactivate the blue base, but I don't want to go alone."

"Got separated?" I asked. "I'll go with you." So we disappeared shiftily to the alternate stairwell, took cover when a blue fired at us, and weaved around the yellow base until we got to the other. The fact that it was unguarded raised some suspicions. The girl cocked her gun like friggin' Tomb Raider, and I snorted, giggling. Suddenly Rich popped out, teeth bared, and fired at me, setting off the deactivation.

"You bitch!"

He blew on the tip of his gun expertly, "Did I ever tell you how good I am? It's a wonderful story, really..." Suddenly, the sensor on his vest rang and the blue lights dimmed. He whipped around, outraged, only to see Charlotte grinning at him with her gun raised.

"I thought you were going to be around our base!"

"I lied," Charlotte smiled, watching Rich smugly.

"You think you're hot shit, Lucas?" Rich asked menacingly. His vest reactivated and he raised his gun. She laughed and ran off, and he barreled in after her, screaming, "I will _end _you!"

"Oh Lord," I grinned. I stepped around the blue base carefully, fired at an adolescent boy (pat his shoulder when he hung his head in shame), and deactivated the base sensor, which apparently got you a shitload of points, I just couldn't be bothered to find out how many. Then I lurked around. A couple times I got swarmed by a mob of yellows, got deactivated twice, took out three and bolted for my own base. It was so damn fun and adrenaline pumping. I had to catch my breath a couple of times, wiping the sweat off of my brow by the green base. And then I saw him.

Will Darcy was crouched down with another teammate behind two barrels, firing over the top of them. He took out a green and a yellow, aimed again, missed and swore. His teammate stealthily crossed over to the other side, and when Darcy popped up again to fire, he got deactivated. "God_damn_ it," he muttered, crouching down. And then I grinned, knowing perfectly well what to do.

I snuck up behind him, practically on all fours and just barely rounded the corner. Then I poked my head in and aimed my gun at the point-happy sensor on his back and fired _just _a second after it reactivated back to life. His gun fell in shock and he spun around, wide eyed. I started laughing, doubled over.

"That's just _mean_."

"I disagree," I grinned.

"You realize that you have about fifteen more seconds left before I come after you."

"I'm really not afraid."

"Nine seconds."

"Oh, Darcy's so _tough_. I'm shaking! Seriously, look at my knees."

And then he sprung up and barreled towards me, and I yelped, anxious and grinning, into the direction of my base. I entered it through one side and looked in front of me and over my shoulder, heart thumping in my chest. It was completely empty, and I felt a Bondesque suspicion come over me. I crouched low and looked between the paneling of the roofed and U-shaped little base. Our sensor twinkled green light in the center, and I glanced at it quickly.

Suddenly, my vest rang out and died down from behind, and I cried out. I whirled around, and Darcy had his gun cocked at me, grinning with a smile I almost wanted to smack off of his face. I folded my arms angrily and he approached, laughing.

"Don't be such a sore loser."

"Thirty seconds, Darcy. I'll get you."

"I don't think you have it in you," he said, suddenly drawing near. I was about to move backward, but he took the cord of my gun, which was apparently mashed up in knots, and nimbly untangled it for me. I looked up at him, puzzled.

It happened in an instant. One minute, Will Darcy was a solid wedge of distance away, and the next, his hand was cradling my cheek and his mouth was pressed against mine. I was so completely _dumbfounded _in shock, that I think I _raised _my hands to shove him off, but my brain didn't make the connection to physically meet with his body and send him hurling in the other direction fast enough. He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed: "I'm sorry. I had to. I couldn't help it." Darcy's voice was barely a murmur.

My lips tingled where he met them, and he was just about to kiss me again, when a wire connected in my brain. I _did _shove him off, aggressively, and he staggered back.

"What the hell was _that_?!" I sputtered, disoriented.

"Lizzy --" Darcy started, strained. He made a move to get closer, but suddenly two yellows poked their heads around and fired, startling us both. When he turned to look at them over his shoulder, that was when I made my move. I bolted in the other direction, as far away as I could get. When round one of the tag ended, I was crouched down at the furthest corner of the highest level away from any of the combat, mind positively reeling.


	18. Ramifications of the Lovesick

**Author's Note:** I had to get this posted already, it's been too exhausting to write (emotionally, I guess). But it's the story's climax, and I'm happy that it's finished and (more importantly), I'm actually happy with it. :) Thanks, guys.

* * *

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Eighteen -- _Ramifications of the Lovesick_)

"_Hey_," Charlotte panted, trying to keep up. Maybe there was a self-contained motor in one of my shoes, I didn't know. But I crossed that parking lot like somebody possessed. She followed behind me, and whirled me around: "For God's sake, Lizzy, slow _down_!"

"I need to get to the car," I explained.

"Does the fate of the entire human race depend on it? Jesus," she laughed, hands on her knees. A few feet away, Rich was grumbling something to Will Darcy, who looked off, distracted and inattentive. I kicked something with the toe of my sneaker, clenching my fists.

Charlotte looked up at me, "Something really _strange _is going on here. First, you completely book it after our game. You didn't even congratulate our team. And what is _up _with Will Darcy trying to talk to you every five seconds? It's like he's delivering his last will and testimony. What's so urgent?"

"Charlotte, you're just imagining things," I said lightly. "Nothing like that's going on. Now, there's a bottle of water in the car and I'm _really _thirsty. Parched. Like, _Seven Years in Tibet _thirsty. Can we go?"

"Look, don't insult me," she scowled, hands on her hips. I tried to walk back, but she grabbed my wrist. "Lizzy, you're all flushed, and you kind of look like a serial killer. I mean that in the nicest way. I _get _that the laser tag arena's dark and you can't make much out, but what happened in there that's got you so shaken up?" I opened my mouth, and she interrupted: "And _don't _tell me it's nothing. I've known you for years. You can't pull that shit with me."

I glanced back. Rich was sprinting up to us, Darcy lagging behind. He clapped a hand on Charlotte's shoulder, a little too forcefully, and she 'Oof'!''d, stumbling forward a little. He winced and steadied her. "Sorry. Just wanted to congratulate you for getting the second highest rank for your team. Beastly."

"Yeah, considering you fooled everybody into thinking you were this meek little player from the sidelines," I said, folding my arms across my chest. Charlotte smiled a little and Rich squinted at me through the sunlight.

"We should go out to lunch to celebrate." He whirled around, cupping his hands around his mouth. He hollered Darcy's name and motioned for him to catch up. Rich looked at me quickly, and looked back to him. "You guys are acting _really _strangely. All quiet and pissy. Did you two duke it out in there or something, Mortal Kombat style?"

"Sorry?"

"You know," Rich flexed his arms, gritting his teeth: "_Finish him! _Did you seriously not have a Nintendo 64 growing up?"

"Four other sisters, sorry," I said. "And no, to that first point too."

Charlotte looked at me carefully, and I avoided her eyes.

* * *

Will Darcy was 99.89% sure that, if it weren't for rigid social constraints, Elizabeth Bennet would have leaped across their booth and throttled him in broad daylight. She would peck at her salad without interest, glare up at him, get beet red and look down again. It was interesting (and confusing) to watch.

And Darcy was _very _confused. In fact, he was utterly miserable. He barely said a word, watching her.

It was bad enough that he had completely lost this battle, decided 'to hell with it' and taken a gamble on Lizzy Bennet, of all girls. He had waited since her arrival to test the waters, one toe at a time, to see if anything had changed. And the vitals had looked good. Had she _not _been flirting with him at some point too? He was almost certain.

Until he, you know, actually _kissed _her. Something told him that a favorable response didn't include physical violence, outrage and bolting for the nearest exist. This sort of thing really had the potential of beating a man's self esteem with a baseball bat.

Maybe she was just scared.

Charlotte and Rich knew to some extent, he got that. They weren't obvious about it, but there were _tons _of shifty eyes and quiet, mental observations. It was pretty clear, along with an overeager attempt from Rich of curbing topics and striking up conversation.

"So, I'm now under the impression that the children of this nation are being bred as laser tag soldiers," he said, taking a slice of bread from the basket. "I mean, did you _see _it in there? Some of them have Napoleonic tactics."

"What, little mathematical perfection and focus on total annihilation instead?" Charlotte asked cheerfully, pausing when he stared at her. "I did my graduation project on the French Revolution. My dad's a history teacher. It rubbed off."

"Nice," he laughed. "Maybe that's how you pulled through. Of course, Lizzy wouldn't know. She completely disappeared for the last few minutes of the game. Chickened out and played the defensive side near your base?"

She smiled a little and said nothing, stabbing a chunk of lettuce. Darcy blinked.

And Rich was exceedingly observant. He just tried to get to the truth through an indirect method, saying, "Okay, now I'm _convinced _that there was some Mortal Kombat action. Because Lizzy strikes me as competitive, and Will I know to be the kind of guy to trump on that. And you two have barely said a word in the last hour."

Charlotte excused herself to the ladies' room and Lizzy watched her go for about half a minute and slumped in her seat. She seemed conflicted on whether to follow her friend or not.

"Dang, now I'm going to be the only jackass talking," scorned Rich, shoving his plate aside. "You know, because you two are so _chatty _and everything."

Lizzy took the hint. She leaned forward, only addressing Rich, "By the way, 67 on the scoreboards? You pulled in at _seventh place_. How is that dominating?"

Rich narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger, "Don't rub it in. You should be grateful, not insulting. I brought you here to begin with. You could have stayed at the hotel nursing Charlotte for all I cared."

"You knew about that?" she asked, surprised.

"I have spies scaling that building," he paused. "That, and I ran into Collins on my way from Rosings, who might have told me."

She snorted softly, taking a bite of her Caesar salad.

"And good ol' _Will _here was great backup," Rich grinned, slinging an arm around Darcy's shoulder. Lizzy barely glanced up. "Though you didn't really pull through for me. You were doing trench warfare or something on the second level."

"These two players wanted my help," mumbled Darcy. "Over the right staircase, by the green base."

"You, my friend, have a heart of gold," said Rich emphatically, turning to Lizzy. "Seriously. He's just a good guy. Always pulls through for people."

"Write him a sonnet, will you," muttered Lizzy sharply, tracing the rim of her glass. She _refused _to look at him.

"You're just unconvinced because you don't _know _him well enough," Rich explained, cheery. "He's just an epic friend. Tell her what you did for Charlie, Will. Maybe she'll understand."

Rich was trying too hard to curry his cousin some favor, and Darcy was just about to tell him to bugger off, when he realized that Lizzy was _finally _looking at him. And with such palpable, glaring distrust, that he had rather hoped he hadn't met her eye to begin with.

"Charlie Bingley?" she inquired, very quietly. There was ice in her voice.

Darcy grimaced, leaning his elbows against the table. He rubbed his temples wearily.

"The very same," Rich said eagerly, hiking his sleeves. "Will _totally _saved him from this wreck of a relationship two months ago. Charlie's in and out of love a lot. Wonderful guy, but completely blind sighted. And in comes this flighty, pretty little thing, all _coy _and indifferent, bent on using--"

Darcy looked up sharply, "Rich. This isn't anybody's _business_--"

Lizzy held up a hand, her jaw tight, "Don't interrupt him." Her entire body was tense. Darcy felt relatively nauseous. "Then what happened?" she asked coolly.

"Lizzy, please."

"_Go on_."

Rich suddenly sensed a change in the atmosphere. But Lizzy goaded him on. He started again, a little apprehensive. "Um, okay. Well, Will basically just showed him logic. I mean, Charlie's pretty loaded. He's a great boyfriend on paper. The girls who have used him come a dime a dozen, and this one was just going to lead to heartache. So Will convinced Carolyn Bingley, the sister, who forced him on holiday back to England. That's where they're originally from. London, I believe. Charlie went back; he got his head screwed on straight again."

Darcy still felt nauseous. And Lizzy? Lizzy Bennet was _seething_. This was when Rich Fitzwilliam's expression crumbled, realizing that he had made a grave mistake. Lizzy's eyes were glassy and and a muscle in her jaw leaped. And then she stood up quickly, jerking the table cloth so violently that some silverware clattered onto the floor.

"You asshole," she bit out at Darcy. "You absolute _asshole!_" She threw down her napkin and moved out of the booth before she broke out into a sprint, heading for the restaurant entrance. Darcy called out and followed, running after her.

It was embarrassing really. Three chairs had been knocked down and the commotion had gathered them attention. Darcy sprinted out and into the parking lot, slowing to a jog when he saw her wrenching open the door of the rented sedan. Apparently Rich had trusted the wrong person with the keys. He barreled towards her and forced the door open, breathing heavily, "Lizzy, _stop_!"

"Don't talk to me," she snapped icily, jamming the key into the ignition. "I need to drive somewhere and be alone and think about all the ways I should _murder _you! I actually need to _brainstorm_. Expect a flow chart."

"You're being ridiculous," he scowled, reaching over until he snatched the keys out. She gaped, outraged, and he lurched back, holding them out of her grasp. Sometimes clearing off at six foot had its advantages. Lizzy glared, absolutely trembling. "You're acting like a _child_," he said evenly.

She took a deep breath and nodded, appearing to compose herself. Darcy visibly relaxed.

And then she slapped him. Clean and hard, straight across the face. He recoiled back, eyes wide with shock. And she was unfazed, wasting no time in calling him out, her eyes glittering with anger.

"For all intents and purposes, let's forget about Jane for a second. Extract her from the equation. But _Charlie_, your own best _friend_?" Lizzy sniped, clenching her fists. "You are such a _bastard_! I can't even _believe _that you would do that!"

"I can't believe you just slapped me!"

"As if you don't deserve it!"

Halfway between her hysterical accusations and his smarting cheek, Darcy decided that he was incredibly pissed off. "Charlie is _my _friend," he said crisply, folding his arms. "I only had his best interests at heart. Are you actually going to _stand _here and preach me some bullshit about your sister being _right _for him? Go on, have a try."

Lizzy glared up at him, "You were probably just jealous, weren't you? Jane was the center of his universe for awhile, and you two being all buddy-buddy, it was _threatening_--"

"Don't be stupid," he snapped, "that's _beyond _ridiculous. What am I, five years old? I was _protecting _Charlie. He couldn't _see _that your sister wasn't as attached as he was. He was setting himself up for a broken heart. Throwing himself away for somebody who couldn't _give _two shits." He rubbed the side of his face.

"And what gives _you _the right to decide the level of Jane's attachment?" Lizzy scoffed. "What, did she confide in you? Because she did with me! And she _loved _him, Darcy. _Loved him_. She wasn't unattached or indifferent or _coy_, or whatever bullshit you told Rich."

"I doubt it was love. She made every appearance of being totally unaffected," Darcy said hotly. "It was _completely _obvious, Elizabeth. Charlie would drop everything for her, and she barely seemed to notice. It was more of a convenience to her, to be with my best friend. Don't lie and call it something else."

"She's _shy_," Lizzy bit out. "She's _extremely _protective of her heart. It doesn't make her cold and _unloving_. And for the record," she pointed, "what _convenience_? Jane doesn't _need _Charlie's money. She's perfectly capable of being independent! That was _never _a factor. Good Lord, you could fill books with the amount bullshit you're saying!"

Darcy was quiet for a couple of moments. And then he said, quiet and intensely: "What I did, I did for Charlie's best interests. I've seen him get hurt time and time again by dozens of girls, and I was always there to help him pick up the pieces. You can't blame me for being careful. You can't blame me for being a good _friend_."

"I can blame you for being _stupid_," she glared, "and ignorant!"

He rolled his eyes, sneering, "If the situations were reversed, if it were _Jane _that needed consoling and protection, _you _would've done the same."

Lizzy faltered and glared, glancing away.

"And part of me thinks that you're just using this situation with your sister to put distance between us," Darcy continued, folding his arms. "I mean, I _get _that when I kissed you, it might have taken you by surprise, but I think I was pretty clear with my behavior these past couple of days."

Lizzy glanced upward, eyes wide with shock. "Sorry?" she laughed coarsely. "_Clear? _Clear. That's rich, really. Tell me, what were you trying to be clear _about_?"

Some of his anger dissipated a little. He loosened his arms and rubbed the back of his neck unsurely. "You honestly don't know," Darcy said blankly, feeling a little hurt.

"At this point, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were _possessed _when you kissed me," Lizzy said pointedly. "Because you couldn't _possibly_ feel--"

"I love you."

All at once, it seemed like Darcy had released a giant boulder from his back, while simultaneously being kicked in the gut. The second part probably stemmed from the expression of the girl he loved. Complete shock. Complete shock, and something that seemed a lot like disgust.

"That's insane. You don't love me."

"No, I actually _do_. And it's ridiculous, because you're nowhere _near _my type," he rattled off, scowling. "You're _rude _and outspoken, and I have _no _idea how you were raised or what you plan to do with your life. You have no goals. You _really _don't have any filter between your mind and your mouth, and sometimes it's just embarrassing."

Lizzy gaped at him, and closed her mouth.

His expression softened, and he sighed. He continued quietly, _desperately_, eyes locked with hers: "And I _tried _to tell myself that you were no good for me, but the more I did that, the harder I fell. I just fell in love with everything _about _you, and I couldn't help myself. Everything about you just sucks me in. I don't even _care _anymore, I'm so sick and tired of beating myself up for it. Of fighting _against _it."

She blinked at him several times before she asked, very warily, "How long have you felt this way?"

"I have no idea. It's not something you wake up with and realize in one morning," Darcy scowled.

And to his horror, Lizzy actually slapped her hands to her mouth and began to _laugh_. Not that she was really amused, there was bitter anger and shock in her tone when she finally said, "Listen to you, you talk like you have an affliction! That's, you know, flattering. Really. _God_," she moaned, passing a hand over her eyes, "I can't believe this."

"I guess it's obvious how _you _feel," Darcy said icily.

"What did you _expect_?" she asked desperately, eyes wide. "I'm sorry. I actually am _really _sorry that you seem to have deluded yourself into thinking I felt the same way. That's probably why you kissed me to begin with." She looked up at him and asked softly, "How could I _possibly _return those feelings, Darcy?"

"You make it seem so obvious," he glared, wounded. "Enlighten me."

Lizzy pressed her fingers against her temples, closing her eyes. She sighed, "God, I might actually need a flowchart. _Jane_, for one, we've been through. _Maybe _also because you're selfish beyond belief! I think I made up my mind about you the moment we met. You're one of the most arrogant men to walk into my life. Nothing is ever good enough for you. Who wants to be with a person like that?"

"That's ridiculous," he sneered. "I am _not_--"

"Oh, really? Take this confession of yours!" she said heatedly, "It's like, '_Well_, every essence of your being absolutely _sucks_, but, I kind of love you, even if that makes me fucked up'." She scowled at him, eyes narrowed, "Notice how you manage to insult me, _even _when you tell me you love me. How fucked up is _that_? You're just an _asshole_, bottom line. You didn't even stop to consider how _I _felt. You don't _care _about the people you affect, just how _you _feel about it."

He was silent for awhile. Maybe it was the equivalent of getting punched in the stomach with a drop kick. He wasn't certain, but suddenly his throat felt very constricted.

And she wasn't even finished.

"Oh," she raised a finger, "and don't think that I buy into Rich's spiel about you being this _loyal friend_, okay? George Wickham, our mutual unmentionable? You com_pletely _dicked him over. So much for _loyalty_," Lizzy sneered, eyes narrowed. "Apparently loyalty to you is framing a good friend for pot possession and getting him kicked out of college when _he _takes the blame. Yeah, bravo. _Really_. And loyalty is also letting a sibling make their own decisions, not taking complete, totalitarian control of their _life_," Lizzy said darkly. "You didn't even let Georgy choose for herself."

She might as well have shot him. His eyes widened, and he might have turned various shades of interesting colors, before he realized that he was fresh out of patience. Fresh out of _tolerance _for this. He was exhausted, and he had never been so wounded or humiliated in his life. So there was so much to say, and not enough breath.

Darcy took a step forward, and said very coldly, very slowly, "There is _so much _you don't know. _So _much."

Lizzy glowered at him.

"And just for my personal records," he continued, "I'm arrogant, selfish, dishonest and conniving. This is basically what you've gathered over the course of a few months."

She looked conflicted for a moment, closed her eyes, and said evenly, "Longer. I think I made up my mind about you this past summer."

Darcy was confused. They hadn't known each other then. He opened his mouth, but she elaborated, "I sent a manuscript to your company in late May. You sent a pretty scathing rejection back. I'm all for criticism, I guess, it just seemed more like a personal attack. Ironic, yes, but it didn't help you in my book." This was all said very quietly.

He had no idea. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was holding her arm, at the elbow, and kicking a bit of gravel. His mind was blank. He couldn't even remember a manuscript that could have been hers.

"Are we finished?" Lizzy asked faintly, brown eyes downcast.

"I think you've made yourself clear," said Darcy very softly, eyes hard. "I'm sorry for wasting your time. I hope you have a good evening." At that, he turned on his heel and walked back into the restaurant, where Rich was watching, just at the entrance doorway. Lizzy watched him go.

* * *

I've never really been one for rational reactions. If this were a different case (and a different _girl_), I'm not really sure what the normal, textbook response would have to be after an argument like that. Probably to sit numbly on the armchair in your starched hotel room and attempt to sift through the emotions of the man who had just professed his _love_ a few hours ago. Maybe heartfelt little sighs would be incorporated, troubled frowns and that tiny twinge of something else. Mostly confusion.

I came back around seven o'clock, after hours of walking around town to clear my head. The first thing I did after bursting inside my hotel room was snatch the post-it Sheraton stationery from the bedside table. I kicked my shoes off, piled my hair up, hiked my sleeves and began _writing_.

The first seven sheets of sticky notes included various things I found _wrong_ with Will Darcy, ones I had brewing for a long, _long_ time before I had even known how he felt. They're easy to guess. Arrogance, controlling, overly-confident, overall douchebagery, shithead_ness_ -

I stopped after realizing that I was on the verge of pulling made-up words out of my ass. The next fifteen post-its consisted of things I'd rather do than _be_ with Will Darcy. I don't know why I did this. It was redundant and exasperating, and strangely cathartic. I wanted to convince myself that what I was thinking was right.

Some post-its were rational. Most of them were plain stupid. I think halfway between "I'd rather lick sand" and "I'd rather gnaw my own arm off", I realized that another wire in my brain had snapped, as they usually do. I was exhausted, furious, confused, and I didn't even realize that I was _crying _until Charlotte pointed this out to me. My face felt hot.

Anyway, poor (poor, _poor_) Charlotte had an extra card to my room. She came in at dinnertime and found me hanging upside down from the bed, bare feet in the air with dozens upon _dozens_ of post-its scattered across the room. Most of them covered the wall. The "sand" one was on my forehead. "I'd rather live in the arctic tundra for six months" was on my right knee, and she unstuck it gingerly and took it with a grain of salt.

"So," she said, taking a careful seat at the edge of the mattress, "I have this best friend, right? I love her to death. We might as well be sisters. Now, tell me. What would _you_ do if she pulled a One _Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest _on your winter holiday and left without saying a word?"

"I'm not crazy," I mumbled, covering my eyes with my hands.

"Hush, Lizzy, this isn't about _you_," she grunted, yanking me up by the arm until I sat, albeit slumped against her side. "See, this _friend_, we'll call her Bizzy. Bizzy's not _normally_ off her rocker, y'know, excluding a New Years' party a year ago. But something's been bubbling up today, and I'm a little afraid for her well being." She peeled the note off of my forehead as she spoke and I winced.

"I think you should give _Bizzy_ three Advils and call her in the morning," I grumbled under my breath.

"Bizzy also ran out in the middle of _lunch_, did I mention?" Charlotte murmured, brushing my hair back. I wanted to apologize for not answering the thirteen missed calls on my cell, but she suddenly added, "and you'll never guess who followed after her, according to my source."

"I can," I said very quietly.

"Then you'll _also_ guess that he left you a note," she answered. I looked up, astonished, but Charlotte was already digging through her purse to retrieve it. A blur of white and then she pressed an envelope into my hands with a handwritten address I didn't feel like recognizing. I immediately wanted to trash it.

Looking back, I understand why he wrote a letter. An email was too impersonal, a voicemail was too brief, and in-person was out of the question. I would have refused to see him, and he probably knew this.

When I glanced back up at her, Charlotte's expression was stoic. She said softly: "I don't know _what _happened in the parking lot, Lizzy, and you don't owe me any details," a pause, "but I don't think I've _ever _seen Will Darcy look so crushed in all the months of knowing him. The least you can do, _I _think, is read this letter of his."

The edges were damp from where I pinched it. I _hated_ that Charlotte told me how Will Darcy had looked when he delivered it. I hated that I managed to make him look that way. But I think I hated him the most for making me feel even remotely sorry to begin with. I hated that I was fighting angry tears.

Without any warning, I was distracted by a sharp, stinging sensation on my calf and I cried out, slapping a hand to my leg.

Charlotte had just peeled off another post-it, brandishing it casually. "Lizzy, I hope you're not serious about this whole I'd-rather-sell-my-liver-on-the-black-market nonsense," she squinted at the note, "I happen to _like_ your liver. You don't have to have a complex about it."

I smiled, rubbing my eyes. Charlotte Lucas had the remarkable capability of jumping from serious to effortlessly soothing in the course of thirty seconds. I needed it. I needed gentle jokes and the subtle questioning of my sanity. Or lack thereof.

"Okay Bizzy," she mumbled, tucking a strand of my hair behind an ear. It was such a Jane mannerism that I had a rush of homesickness, an ache deep in my gut. She patted my hand and made me promise to call in the morning. And then she left and I felt more alone than I had before she had come in.

When I heard the door click shut behind her, I got up and carefully unglued the notes from the stucco wall. I shoved them into the bedside drawer and went and got a glass of cold water from the tap. Then I brushed my teeth and avoided looking at Darcy's letter through the bathroom mirror. I settled under the covers with a cold washcloth and laid it over my eyes.

A whole three minutes later, I decided that I was going to pop a blood vessel from curiosity alone. I sprang up from bed, snatched the letter off of the dresser and quickly unfolded it, taking in too many words at once.

The entire thing was written in pen; all three sheets of paper. You had fragments crossed out and words blotted and the end result kind of reminded me of the blue book essays we were forced to do throughout high school in the course of fifty five minutes. But it was legible, which I thought unfortunate. It'd be so much easier to chuck it into the wastebasket and call it a day. I read on:

_Lizzy,_

_Your first impulse is probably to rip this letter in pieces. You can take a deep breath; I'm not going to humiliate myself anymore by repeating how I feel. I think I'm mortified enough, and you've made me acutely aware of how _you_ feel on the subject._

More self-pity. Shocker._  
_

_The purpose of this letter is to defend myself. I think it's only fair that I address all that you accused me of; I'd appreciate it if you read through. First off, I know we argued about your sister. And I'll repeat myself. I split Charlie and Jane up, but with no malicious intent on my part whatsoever. He's had rocky relationships in the past and I've seen him devote so much to women and walk away absolutely devastated in return. Maybe my judgment was flawed in thinking that Jane was apathetic, but please understand that I only wanted what was best for my friend. He might as well be my brother.  
_

_Also, I think that the issue of George Wickham has raged on long enough, and you deserve to know the truth. I take responsibility in not sharing it with you earlier. I had plenty of opportunities. So here it is: Wickham and I were roommates freshman year of college - maybe you already knew this, depending on what he told you. We were well acquainted but not that close. Though this didn't exactly stop me from lending a helping hand. He had a gambling problem, so, I (probably stupidly) helped him pay a part of his tuition. He was very thankful and gracious, of course, until I discovered two months later what source the charity had gone to. _

_I should have said something then and there, and I'm probably always going to kick myself for not doing so. By the time a mutual friend's holiday party came around, Wickham returned to our dorm nearly wasted, making it perfectly clear (verbalizing it, actually) as to where the my money had gone to. There was a stash of pot under his bedsheet and also in a safebox beneath his bed. Needless to say, I was furious. I threatened to reveal him unless he got rid of it all. He lit up just to be spiteful, and I couldn't control myself anymore. We got into a fight - _(here there was a smudge of ink and I made out _broke _and _nose_ among crossed out words) -- _and the joint was tossed somewhere, and then the smoke detector went off. _

_I couldn't defend him, nor did I want to. He had betrayed my generosity and our friendship, and I owed him nothing in return. And so I didn't stick up for him. He was discovered and he was thrown out within the week. I hadn't heard from him again until I saw you with him that afternoon months ago. Then on the thirtieth of November, Georgy called me in tears from a hotel room in Center City. All this time, she had been seeing George Wickham in secret without even being aware of his connections or intentions. Wickham had taken her to a Hilton in town for the weekend, and she had stepped out to make a phone call in the lobby. When she returned, Wickham was gone, leaving her stranded in the middle of the city with no means of getting back. She was devastated and terrified. I can't even begin to describe it. She wanted to leave Philadelphia on her own accord - I had never fully supported her living so far off from home, but it was ultimately her decision. She felt stupid and tricked and her pride was wounded. Home was the answer at the time, and this was why she left you. You can understand that she was too embarrassed to be honest with you and your sister. It takes awhile to recover from something like this. We have since not found Wickham.__  
_

At this point, I put the letter down, paced, took a couple of breaths of air and got another glass of water from the tap. I picked up the letter again, feeling sick.

_Lastly, in passing, you mentioned a manuscript of yours. You have to realize that I didn't even realize what you were talking about at first. As soon as I came back to the hotel (before hunting down Charlotte), I immediately phoned my office. It was faxed over a little less than an hour ago, and I recognize it now. And Lizzy, part of me is really afraid that you've been judging me based on the single rejection letter I sent back this past summer; the fact that it was your manuscript is just unbelievable irony. I can't tell if you've been holding onto a pre-determined hate just because of this, and if that happened, you can't even begin to understand how sorry I am that you feel this way._

_I hate my job. I've told you this. But I meant my criticisms and I still do. I apologize if you took them personally, but Lizzy, it was your choice to send the manuscript where you sent it. It was only one opinion, and it was your choice to react the way that you did._

_In any case, I think you have potential to be a great writer. But I'd take Rich's advice into consideration. You've got the brains and sharpness for journalism. Who knows what could happen._

_I realize that I'm most likely the last person you'd consider listening to about your future, especially given the circumstances. You've made it clear how you feel about me, and I won't be bothering you again._

_Take care of yourself,_

_Will_

This letter (yes, all three pages) was dog-eared by midnight. Many curses had followed, a lot of angry pacing was done and several passages were revisited - I had burst into angry tears right around the part explaining Georgy, and especially at the end, like clockwork.

I felt like the epitome of a fucktard, as Jane had put it nearly a month ago. God, it felt like so much longer. I felt betrayed and cheated and as _dense _as I had accused Will Darcy of being. I was actually angry at him for writing it to begin with. I was angry at him for making my anger _unjust_. If I had a choice to be ignorant of it, I would've trashed the envelope without even opening it.

_No, you wouldn't have._

Around two in the morning, I settled into bed fully clothed. I read the letter one more time, swallowed two Advils and fell into the kind of deep sleep that only follows when you've used up probably every emotion you're capable of exerting in a single day.


	19. Audrey, Christmas, and Denial

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Nineteen -- _Audrey, Christmas and Denial_)

You know that a trip away from home has gone inadvertently wrong when you feel a part of your actual _being _change for the worse.

I've never really been that girl to run away from her problems. In fact, I grew up _despising _girls like that. My father raised me with some balls and a solid wedge of advice: face your problems head-on, chin firmly lifted.

Pathetic.

I fled Rosings with my tail between my legs. Shuffling through airports and customs and baggage claim (I think there might have been a flight at some point too), the only palpable thing I felt was cowardice. And okay, maybe some guilt; I had shelled out _way _too much cash for a brand spanking new, one way ticket back home. Hey, more debt.

So, I would be spending the holiday with my family after all. We were three days away from Christmas Eve, and honestly? I was kind of psyched. I _wanted _hair-yanking anxiety and my mother's shrill commands and horrible cooking. I was even up for Marin's overgrown bitchfests and the younger twins' stupid, shit-for-brains giggling. I wanted Nat King Cole on repeat, playing in the kitchen, and our tree with handmade decorations and any household fire Dad might cause in response. I didn't know why I had convinced myself otherwise. Home was home.

Jane had picked me up by the terminal, eyes practically sparkling, color back in her cheeks. In the car, I chalked up my reasons for leaving to "homesickness", slumping further and further in my seat with each lie. _So, I'm pretty much a shithead now_.

"Mom and Dad will be so happy to see you," Jane assured me, grinning. I had missed that spark to her, and I couldn't help but smile too. Florida had done some good. She continued: "_Oh_, and the Phillips actually couldn't make it," Jane shared, wincing, "Danny had a sledding accident. Broke his knee in three places."

"_Nice_," I sighed, "that's the accident prone cousin, right? The one we should bubble wrap?" I hugged my knees to my chest, watching as she changed lanes on I-95. She snorted, and I rested my head against the window.

"Oh, Lizzy," she sighed, taking a hand off of the wheel to squeeze mine. "You can't _imagine _how much fun I had with the Gardiners. They have such a beautiful home. All I did was eat, sleep and take walks on the beach, and I _know _that it's monotonous, but it was heaven. Believe me."

"I believe you. I'm happy, Jane," I said quietly, scanning her face. Jane bit her lower lip. And I suddenly got the impression that she was trying too hard. But a second later, she looked perfectly happy.

"So," she grinned widely, turning my way. "What about Rosings? Any wild, exciting stories? Scandals I should be aware of? I mean, from what Charlotte's said, it's a tame area. But with _you _involved, who knows."

"Oh, _funny_." I looked out the window, at blurred, slush covered roads from a snowfall two days ago. "Just the usual, you know," I murmured. "Relaxed with Charlotte, avoided Collins. That's pretty much it."

_Angered a rich, self-convinced aristocrat. Delighted in the kindred spirit that is Rich "Richie Cunningham" Fitzwilliam. Collected quotes. Caused dinner ruckus. Went Pre-Commando. Drank coffee. Kissed Will Darcy. Slapped Will Darcy. Fought with Will Darcy. Was professed love to _by _Will Darcy._

Goddamn it.

His letter was actually still in my carry-on. I didn't know what to do with it. Apparently I'm still a masochist, because I actually read it _again, _on the flight. You know, _before _I shoved it away out of self-disgust and settled for some book Marin had begged me to read, _Twilight_. Of course, that shit was tossed soon enough too.

"At least it was a chance to get away, right?" Jane continued, checking out her rear view mirror. "We all need some time to branch away from our lives. Vacations are a must. And if you can come back home with a little _less _stress, than what can possibly be better than that?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "Exactly. Nothing better."

* * *

The next couple of days flew by in a maze of family squawking, knit Christmas scarves (Kit's holiday contribution), scorched oversized cookies, a humongous family dinner, and mass cleaning. It actually couldn't have come at a more opportune time. I was wide open for a distraction. And with my inflated, drama centered family? Mission accomplished.

I spent the last couple of hours of Christmas Eve curled up on the couch beside my father, cradling a mug of tea and watching _Roman Holiday_. It was one of the more peaceful moments that week, and I felt myself nodding off, buried in our oversized quilt. Dad carefully detached the mug from my hands, setting it on the coffee table.

"I was going to drink that," I murmured sleepily.

"_No_," he corrected, smiling slowly. "You were going to droop sideways, fall asleep, and pour piping hot green tea into my lap. I don't like second degree burns, least of all on Christmas." I snorted and elbowed him, and he let me, rocking to the side.

"I'm sorry," I said, yawning into my fist. "I'm kind of out of it. Mom made me and Marin clean out nearly all the closets on the first floor. I don't get it, Christmas isn't exactly a chance to leap on extended spring cleaning, you know?"

Dad shrugged, taking my cup. "She's your mother; you should know her antics. And the house is filthy, anyway. You kids aren't saints of cleanliness. Far from it."

I gaped at him, "I don't even _live _here anymore."

"A likely excuse," he smiled slyly. He turned back and nodded his head at the television, "I bet Audrey Hepburn never made a mess. Gregory Peck, maybe. But just look at her. She's so prim and gussied up."

"_Gussied up_," I snorted softly. I rested my head on his shoulder. "Gregory Peck is lovely. Atticus Finch, hello?"

"I haven't seen that in years," Dad reflected quietly.

"I would name my dog that," I said sleepily. "You know, if I ever got one."

He raised his eyebrows at me, "You would name your dog Gregory Peck."

"_No_," I laughed, looking up at him. "Atticus. It's so regal. Like, _come away, Atticus, to the park! _Wouldn't that be awesome? Either that, or Spartacus. Maybe it's a syllable thing."

"Lizzy, you're so silly."

"I'm starting to realize this, yeah."

"I'm not objecting. I already knew you would be a weird one growing up." I didn't take offense to this, just grinned. Dad laughed and went on, "Honestly, I'm just _happy_. I thought you were sick or something for the last couple of days. You seem more like yourself today."

I glanced up at him, confused, "I wasn't sick. Why would you think that?"

He shrugged, "You were _mopey_. Way too quiet. You're _never _quiet in this house. But you seem okay now."

"I am okay," I murmured, picking at the quilt's hem. Dad was looking at me carefully with that steady blue-gray gaze of his. He's the sort of man who won't stop doing that unless you've looked up yourself. So I did, whining, "_What?_"

"You're doing it again," Dad laughed. He hunched his shoulders deliberately and curled his lips, "_Mope, mope, mope_. I haven't been to California since before you and Jane were born; is this a trend you took home with you?"

This was Dad's way of gently implying that he knew something had gone down at Rosings. I didn't need a translated dictionary. He and I got each other pretty well. I looked up at him sheepishly, and he smiled. His eyes were serious. "Well?" Dad pressed softly. "What's eating you, kiddo?"

"Nothing," I said. "I'm fine. I had a good trip."

"You came back early." When I looked up at him suddenly, he laughed: "Didn't think I _knew_, did you? No, I'm actually pretty observant for someone who's approaching senility. And I love you; I know when something's wrong."

I smiled, rolling my eyes. "Give that up, you're fifty-eight."

"Don't change the subject. Who upset you?"

I didn't know how he did it. He could be the most detached person in the universe, completely contented to his own little bubble. And yet, he could snap back and read you like a book in a matter of seconds. It wouldn't matter how well you tried to conceal what you felt. He just could.

"I just," I sighed, bracing myself. "I ran into somebody down there that I didn't expect to, that's all." At his clear _go on _gesture, I rolled my eyes, "He's hard to explain. He's the best friend of the guy who broke Jane's heart, the brother of my former housemate, the editor who rejected my manuscript _eons _ago. It's not that big of a deal. It was just …unpleasant. Unpleasant history."

Dad was pensive for awhile. "That's weird. That he has so many different ties into your life."

"Not _weird_, more like inconvenient and _annoying_," I muttered, slumping. I turned back to the flat screen, watched Audrey wheel around on a vespa, arms linked around Gregory's waist. I smiled a little.

Dad clicked his tongue, "I think I remember you talking about this guy."

"I probably complained about him last time I was here."

"So, you don't like him."

I smiled ironically, "I guess that's the conclusion you can draw from me _complaining_, definitely."

"No," Dad amended, "not necessarily. You don't seem to know if you do or don't."

"No, I do. I mean, I do _know_, I just," I fumbled, hugging my knees to my chest. "I don't like him."

"You don't sound too sure," Dad teased, smiling his crooked smile.

"What? No, I _do_, I-- God, you're _frustrating_," I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

"So you're mopey because of this guy."

"_No_."

"But you just _said_--"

"Can we finish _Roman Holiday _now?"

"Lord," he laughed, eyes crinkling, "you're as difficult as your mother. Leave it up to you to pluck out _those _genes."

"We can't all be as laid back as you are, Dad," I said, looking at him.

And then something flitted across his face. He frowned and looked at me carefully, eyes growing wide. "He _likes _you, doesn't he?"

I opened my mouth.

Dad laughed, "He _does_. You should see your face. I don't see why I didn't get it before. You're confused. Like a little kid."

"I'm not _confused_--"

"Oh, shush," he snorted. "Of course you are. You've hated the guy since who knows, and now that he likes _you_, you're probably not sure if your opinion is justified. Con_fused_. You have worry lines, it's kind of funny." He started to trace them with his finger, and I swatted him away, scowling.

"Dad, that's just --"

"_Right_," he gloated, "That's just _right_. I win."

"Whatever," I grimaced, folding my arms across my chest.

Dad rolled his eyes, "Brat."

Just as I whipped around to comment back, I saw that he was wincing, his hand pressed against his chest. I rose on my knees, "What? What's wrong?"

He shook his head, "Don't worry about it, it comes and goes. I had some weird anxiety attack while you were gone; still feeling side effects from it."

"Anxiety attack?" I echoed, worried. "What did it feel like?"

"It felt like an _anxiety attack_," Dad laughed. "Relax, _goodness_. Look at you. We had a backed up shipment and I was trying to keep things up to date. Just a stressful week."

"Why didn't Mom call me?"

"You were on the other side of the country, Lizzy, and it wasn't a big deal."

"Well, _tell _me next time, okay? It's a big deal to _me_," I said crossly. "God. Are you sure it was an anxiety attack?"

"I'm not going to _keel over_, Lizzy," he said. "I'm a pretty healthy guy."

"You've been eating sugar cookies all evening."

"What, _these_?" Dad snorted, reaching over to pluck an oversized, rock hard cookie my sister had failed to perfect in the oven. "I wouldn't touch this death biscuit with a ten foot _pole_. Don't tell Marin. I _like _having all my teeth."

I sighed, "Just …take care of yourself. Please?"

"Yeah, right. You _like _these opportunities; look how effectively I changed the topic without even planning to." When I shoved at him, he started laughing. "Fine, fine, _kidding_. Well, seriously though. Should I expect more moping at New Years too?"

"No," I said crisply. "It's over with, Dad. Practically forgotten about."

"Okay then," Dad smiled. He looked at the television screen then and turned back at me, a slow smile creeping on his face. "Hey, Lizzy?"

"_What?_" I snapped.

"Merry Christmas."

I whipped my head towards the television, at the corner where the time read, absolutely shocked. Dad grinned.

* * *

Two days after Christmas, I roamed around town with Jane, revisiting the borough and our cozy, remote little plazas that were always family hotspots during the holidays. We drove to Hawker's Village where they sold hot pretzels and coffee outside of shops during the daytime, parents squawking about with their strollers and the toddlers who had burst free from them.

We were due back at school on the fifteenth, jumpstarting the second semester. I was nowhere near ready, perfectly contented to stay at home, for once in my life. Jane grumbled the exact same sentiment, taking a sip of her coffee as we took a seat at the bench by a frozen duck pond. We watched a young boy sprint by, his scarf whipping in the wind.

"Jesus, it's _cold_," I shivered, rubbing my hands together. They felt raw and tingling, and I remembered Charlotte's description and smiled a little. Jane took off one of her gloves and handed it to be, and I snorted, "Glove socialism? Thanks, sweetie."

"Sure thing, chicken wing," she grinned.

I laughed, "_You're _in a good mood."

"I am," Jane nodded, smirking into her cup. "I really am. It's smells clean and woodsy out, and the sun is shining, and we're not in class, and I'm not miserable and obsessive and regretful. I am A-okay."

I popped my lips.

She snorted, "What, you're not?"

"I'm fine," I said slowly, smiling. I narrowed my eyes at her, taking in all the bubbliness, "You didn't …_meet _anybody, did you?"

"Why, does my happiness have to be based on a _relationship_?" Jane said very quickly and defensively.

"Oh," I nodded grimly, "Oh _right_. Sorry, I mistook that singles awareness, burst of feminism thing for genuine happiness. I understand. It gets me sometimes too. Girl power, woo."

Jane rolled her eyes and snorted. "Seriously, Lizzy. You're going to doubt me, but I'm over him. I'm _completely _over Charlie. I think taking a vacation really got me back on track again, focused on what was important. Family, friends, being happy. I'm done being hung up on things that won't change."

I looked back out across the walkway, taking a long sip from my cup. And then I looked back at her. Man, she was just so dang _pretty_. What with her blonde hair poking out adorably from under her beanie, bangs side swept and falling into her blue eyes, cheeks flushed from the cold. She was something out of a greeting card. _Honestly, why haven't I developed an inferiority complex by now?_

Jane raised an eyebrow, "You've gone mute on me."

"I'm just thinking."

"About?"

"About how some people are really _so _unbelievably stupid."

Jane sighed, tracing the rim of her cup. "Don't even worry about it, Lizzy. I doubt we'll have anything to do with that lot again. I'm just …I'm completely _done _over analyzing everything, of crying, of freaking out. I'd be perfectly fine if I never saw him, _or _his sisters, _or _his friends ever again. Good riddance."

I swallowed. I wanted to mention what I knew so _badly_. I practically wanted to scream it. And it was so detrimental too, it would only lead to her heartache. But my conscience, my damn conscience, didn't seem to understand that. So I beat it back with a metaphoric baseball bat and sipped coffee instead.

But something slipped out, and it was Jane's fault:

"So tell me about Rosings--"

"Will Darcy was there."

I clenched my eyes shut, about ready to pull my own hair out. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

I guess this is what happens when somebody's on your mind a lot. It tends to translate into verbal diarrhea.

Not that I wanted him to be on my mind, I couldn't really help it. But it happened a lot, especially when it was quiet. He would sneak into my head during chores, or reading, or the gaps between conversations. I had gotten into the habit of analyzing that huge parking lot spat. Of mentally cringing over hurled insults and expressions. Of tracking conversations backward and looking for signs. It was just plain unhealthy.

Oh right, Jane.

Jane was staring at me thoughtfully, brow creased. "_Will Darcy_?" she repeated. I explained about his relation to Catherine de Bourgh quickly, left out about a novel's worth of detail and concluded that I hadn't seen him much at all. Then I looked away.

Jane was quiet. And then slowly, she asked, "You didn't …you didn't ask about Charlie."

"…No."

_Not a lie! Well, technically._

"And Will didn't mention anything about him--"

"No."

_Damn.  
_

"Just curious," Jane murmured, staring straight ahead. I looked at her, concerned, and she suddenly took my hand, pointing to the window of the closet shop. "Let's go in there. Look at that pashmina in the window. Pretty, isn't it?"

I snorted softly. She sprung up and grinned, walking ahead, and I followed numbly behind, thinking that I _really _had to do something about controlling what came out of my mouth (or maybe more importantly, what bombarded my brain). I had to clear my head. I would have to squeeze in another getaway trip soon. Weekend sabbatical. _Something.  
_


	20. In Which Lizzy Matches Tomato Soup

_Put your weight against the door  
Kick drum on the basement floor  
Stranded in a fog of words  
Loved him like a winter bird  
On my head the water pours  
Gulf stream through the open door  
Fly away_  
"I Feel It All" by Feist

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty --_ In Which Lizzy Matches Tomato Soup_)

If you ask me now, January to early March was pretty much a blur. Honestly, I can sum up what happened in a handful of sentences; it's all pretty tame.

1. Jane and I remodeled the house. Somewhere between chipping tiles and hand me down sheets, we booked it for Bed, Bath & Beyond. _And _we painted all the walls olive green. It made us feel accomplished.

2. I got buried in the avalanche of schoolwork. This semester was more challenging. I had also sent some pieces to the university paper, and was now successfully writing some choice articles for the _Hertfordshire Herald_. The editor-in-chief was a friend of mine. It was a great, cozy environment, but late nights were inevitable.

3. Oh, and Jane started seeing other people.

They were all practically shittier, carbon copies of the Bingley prototype. Polite and smiley, only with about 1/8th the personality. I didn't mention this, of course. When Jane asked about Kevin or Matt or Vince or whatshisface, she usually got the standard answer: "He seems _nice_."

"He's got a great sense of humor, huh?"

"Definitely, Jane."

_He's about as amusing as oatmeal._

"And his eyes are so _pretty_! Almost sky blue, right?"

"Exactly what I was thinking. Indigo."

_They're empty and _cold_._

"I think he liked my spaghetti."

"Who wouldn't?"

_I saw him shove some into his napkin._

Did I mention that there was a rift of dishonesty forming between me and my twin around this time? I never meant for it to happen. It sparked after Rosings and lit up like a bonfire, devouring _everything_. She felt it too. We started talking less and less, mostly on the grounds that Jane felt that something was up, but she never confronted me about it. And I would never let on.

I thought we had a good deal going on too. Until one weekend early in March, exhausted from a double shift at work and a cram session, I collapsed on my bed, and she stormed in.

"Lizzy Bennet, get up."

"Mmf?" I mumbled against my pillow, craning my neck. She loomed over me, hands on her hips. "Oh, hey Jane."

"Let's get you out of the house."

"I was just out of the house."

"You were at work. That doesn't count."

"It does so. I _mingled_."

"_Up_. Get up!"

I didn't budge. She wrapped a hand around my upper arm and yanked me forward, and I yelped. "Stop that! What is your _deal_? God."

"I've been talking to Charlotte," Jane said crisply, folding her arms. "And don't think _I _haven't been noticing it either. You're overworked, and quiet and _miserable_."

"I love being talked about behind my back. Did you guys compose a list?"

"Lizzy," Jane sighed, running a hand through her blonde hair. "You're an excellent student. You're really doing an incredible job. And the paper I can appreciate, Lee tells me you're practically made for the job. But all these other groups? And the _extra _job you inquired about? You're going to pass out one of these days from exhaustion alone."

"It's an _internship_, not an extra job," I mumbled, sitting up. "My econ professor recommended me for it. It would look good."

"But you don't even _sleep _anymore."

"I sleep."

_I don't._

"At least let Charlotte cover one of your shifts. It's nice of you to pull double duty after Brenda's accident, but you don't have to kill yourself."

"I like my job."

Jane raised her eyebrows and I looked down.

So, the justifications were starting to sound unconvincing. I _was _exhausted. I almost hoped for an IV filled with coffee one of these days. I don't know when I started heaping so much stuff onto my plate, but it was comfortable, in a sense. I didn't want to think about anything, I just wanted to _do_.

"Drop something and have dinner with me some night," Jane whined, sitting on the edge of my mattress. "I _miss _you. I don't understand why we don't talk anymore."

"We're talking right now," I smiled.

"Yeah, but something's different. Something's _been _different."

I sighed and turned my head, looking out my window. It was raining out.

"Anyway," Jane slumped, back against my wall. "Trish and Benny called today. They're on the way back from Mom and Dad's and they want to stop by tonight. That okay with you?"

"That's fine."

"Good," Jane got up quickly. She was about to turn for the door, hesitated, and kissed my cheek. She tucked a strand of my hair behind an ear and smiled. "Help me set the table?"

* * *

Benny Gardiner drummed his knuckles on the kitchen wall, inspecting the paint job. Then he checked the bathrooms. _Then _he checked the front yard. And after about twenty minutes, he came back inside inquiring for a cup of hot cocoa or coffee or water. Or whiskey.

Trish, his wife, narrowed her eyes at him and tossed a bottle of Evian his way. "Now that you're convinced that the girls don't have mold or leaky tiles _or _a burst septic tank, would you mind sitting down before we waste a perfectly good evening?"

"Just being a thorough landlord, sweetie," he grinned, and then turned to wink at me. "You know, since I only show up here around every four months or so. I'm not that attentive, am I?"

"You trust us too much," Jane teased. He smiled.

Benjamin Gardiner took too much after my father. Which was bizarre, since he was on Mom's side. He got along wonderfully with my dad though. They were amused by practically all the same shit. Corny jokes, side winks, an indulgence in alcoholic beverages that burned down your throat. There wasn't much else to him. He had wide hazel eyes, a love for flannel and traveling, and a deeply rooted respect for the woman in his life.

Well, actually, you couldn't _not _respect Trish Gardiner. The minute I called her Patricia, she practically bit my head off. This was five years ago. It took me three to learn to like her. She was just that combination of shrewd and calculating and eventually warm. You had to _earn _her trust and her love. After that, she was an absolute sweetheart.

We ordered Chinese for dinner, and I was at the counter, unsticking mountains of rice from their white, paper containers. It came out kind of like a sandcastle and Trish snorted, flattening it with a fork.

"It smells delicious," she said. "Delivered?"

"Naw," I snorted. "We picked it up fifteen minutes ago."

"You _finally _got a car," Benny said commendably, feet propped up on our table. Trish glowered at him and he cleared his throat, setting them down.

"It's temporary," Jane grinned. "Our friend Charlotte saved enough for a mini cooper she wanted. Left us a crappy Ford Pinto, but we're used to it by now. And _grateful_, because well, I hate the bus."

"I like the bus," I shrugged. "I like the characters."

"That's scary," Benny snorted.

"So, where you guys been lately?" Jane asked, setting a plate of General Tsos on the table. "I didn't get any postcards or anything. Do you understand how disappointing that is?"

"Sorry," Trish grinned. "We've actually been taking it slow in terms of trips. We did take a vacation through the Czech Republic to Austria late January. Went up from Karlovy Vary, to Prague, to Vienna. It was _wonderful_."

"I wish I lived your life," I grinned, popping a piece of rice into my mouth. "I would use up so much film."

"We do," smiled Benny.

"It's not that fun when you go back home and have to deal with the reality of a sucky housing market," grumbled Trish, emptying a container. "_Why _did I go into real estate? I'll never understand it."

"Because that boy who asked you out sophomore year of college was majoring in it," my uncle prompted smugly. "And he was _built_. Just incredibly, _incredibly _sexy."

"I'm going to throw a spare rib at you," Trish warned. "Get over yourself."

"Are you going anywhere soon?" Jane asked. I looked up at her.

Trish shrugged, "My brother's birthday party is in about a week. It's this extended family thing in Myrtle Beach. Ben and I are taking a road trip down through Maryland, then Virginia, past the Carolinas. We haven't done that in years. Why, you girls free?"

"Seriously?" Jane perked up.

"That's a good idea," Benny added. "We could do with another hostage. A buffer. Between Trish and the GPS, I need some other person there before I kill myself. Traffic and bad directions will do that to a man."

"It's nice to know how loved I am," smiled Trish. "Thanks, hon."

"Why don't you take Lizzy?" Jane suggested.

I glanced up quickly, "What? _No_."

"I'm serious," Jane laughed, turning to Trish. "She just needs to get out. She's been locked in since the holidays, and one of these days I think she's going to snap."

"Hide the knives," Benny winced. I threw a piece of rice at him.

"Oh come on," I rolled my eyes. "Jane, _you've_ barely gone anywhere all year."

"We took her to Florida with us," Trish argued. "Fair is fair. What, do we offend?"

"No!" I laughed. "No, I love you guys."

"Are you too busy?"

"She's not," Jane piped up. I glared at her, and she shrugged, "I can iron out some scheduling problems, Lizzy. I'll talk to Charlotte and Lee. And you don't even have exams this week, you told me so yourself."

"That settles it!" grinned Benny. "Pack your bags, kid. You're going with us."

"But I --"

"You'll have fun," Trish assured me, grinning. "The whole trip is what, Ben? Ten hours through? We'll probably stop for meals, of course. We leave _early _Wednesday, should arrive by Thursday. That okay?"

"I," I stammered, laughing. "I feel forced into this."

"You know you want to," Benny nudged, smiling crookedly. "You can be a camera whore and buy tacky souvenirs. And then spend a day with us down at Trish's brother's house. He's loaded. It's good stuff."

Jane snorted. She gave me puppy dog eyes, "Come on, Lizzy."

"Yeah, come _on_, Lizzy."

"Come on, Lizzy!"

"I hate you guys," I laughed, chucking a spoon into the sink.

But they did it. Tuesday night, I was on the floor of my room, packing my beat up red suitcase to the brim. And in the midst of wrapping up my iPod and shoving freshly laundered pajamas into a side pocket, I suddenly realized it: I was _excited_.

* * *

"God_damn_ you, TomTom," Benny swore, banging a fist on the GPS system. He glanced up at his wife under the brim of his cap, and she laughed, unfolding a map.

"Leave TomTom out of this," she advised soothingly. "She's just a poorly programmed GPS system. I'm more reliable, anyway."

"Fat chance of _that_," grumbled Benny.

"You should program her to sound like John Cleese," I yawned, resting my head on the window.

"TomTom or Trish?"

"_TomTom_," I laughed. "Poor Trish, I'm sorry."

"You learn to tune him out after awhile," grumbled Trish, flipping a page of her map. She rested a hand on her stomach and groaned, "Ugh, I just wish we hadn't gorged on breakfast so _early_. IHOP stands for International House of Puking, right?"

"Window, please," said Benny sharply.

I grinned, looking out the window, iPod earbuds firmly in place. We had been on the road for five consecutive hours, since six in the morning. Traffic was remarkably on our side, but Benny wouldn't hear any of it: "You'll _ginx _us!"

Either way, we were making great time. We had practically brushed through Maryland (well, I had napped through the entire state anyway). A sign advertising 'Richmond' up ahead surprised me a few hours later. Then again, I kept weaving in our of sleep, lulled by music and car vibrations and the buzz of Trish and Benny's arguments: "No, exit IC, it merges into I-945, _South_. No, take _that _exit! Jesus!" "You're wrong! _Wrong_!"

I dreamed a lot, I just couldn't remember most of it. We stopped by some rest shops, filled up, stocked up on snacks and argued about films a lot. Sometimes politics. Mostly bands, because Ben insisted on blaring Aerosmith for three hours, and Trish wanted to shoot her own foot off.

She punched in a button, scowling, and U2's "The Sweetest Thing" seemed like a mutually acceptable alternative.

"One of Bono's underrated ones," she sighed happily.

"How can it be underrated if it's overplayed?" I smirked at her.

"Eh," Benny wrinkled his nose. "_Bono _is overrated. I like The Edge."

"I might fight you," I laughed. He narrowed his eyes competitively at me from the rear view mirror and mock snarled.

_Eternal fire, she turned me to straw  
Oh, oh, the sweetest thing _

"Are we driving through the night?" Trish asked. "We're making good time. Maybe we shouldn't slow down."

"You know, I was thinking that," Ben said curiously. He looked at me, "And Lizzy's practically in a coma every five minutes."

I scoffed, waving them on, "Hey, do what you want."

"It's settled then. _With _coffee breaks."

I smiled at him.

"Oh, oh, oh, the sweetest thing," Benny chirped, igniting Trish's giggles. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

_Oh, oh yeah  
Blue eyed boy and this brown eyed girl  
Oh, oh, oh, the sweetest thing  
You can sew it up but you still see the tear  
Oh, oh, oh, the sweetest thing _

I sat up quickly, "Switch the song."

Trish muttered, "What, suddenly _you're _anti-Bono? I don't understand people."

"Just _change _it."

"_Ch-ch-ch-changes_," continued Benny, glancing at his side mirror. Trish turned the dial and a saxophone solo interrupted Ben's Bowie interlude. He glared at his wife, "I _live _for soft-core Jazz, thank you, Patricia."

"You're welcome, Benjamin."

I sighed, legs crossed and propped up on the back seat. It was dark out, cars whirling by quickly, lights and skyline in the distance. "Where _are _we?"

"I keep _telling _you," Trish yawned, head against the window.

"Nuh-uh."

"It's true," Benny laughed. "You just keep passing out back there. You're narcoleptic, I swear."

"It's good for her," Trish murmured. "She's catching up on some sleep."

"Sorry, guys," I winced. "I'm kind of a stick in the mud, aren't I?"

"Not when you're conscious," Trish smiled, glancing at me from over her shoulder. She reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a toy pug doll, "Bobblehead? I got it in the gift shop. _I-Heart-VA_. Now everybody can know that you love Virginia. Well, _loved_. We're almost out."

"We're almost _out_?' I balked, rubbing my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Twelve thirty," yawned Benny, rubbing his eyes blearily. "We should be in Charlotte by tomorrow, I think. Well, much later today. Same difference."

Charlotte. _Charlotte_.

"Like, the _city _Charlotte?"

"No, Charlotte Brontë, obviously. Go back to sleep, Lizzy."

I sat back, rubbing my eyes. I was beat. _But _I hadn't been able to stop thinking about somebody since we started out. Reluctantly, I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. I bit my lip.

"Who you calling?" my uncle asked, looking at me through the rear view mirror.

I flipped over my phone again and again. "A good friend of mine lives just outside of Charlotte. Do you think …would I be able to…?"

"I think we could spare an afternoon," Benny yawned.

Trish looked skeptical, "But we were making such good time!"

"We're ahead of schedule anyway, honey."

She considered it, "Good point." She sighed, turning around, "As long as this person isn't a complete psychopath, okay? _And _we're going with you. _And _it would only be a couple of hours, at most."

"That's fine," I smiled.

* * *

Georgy's voice was dull with shock when I called her. But then she was laughing, _giddy_, and I couldn't contain myself either. I was just outside of a rest stop by Greensboro, Trish and Benny ordering late brunch inside. I sat on the trunk of the car, watching the sun peek out from a sky that was mostly overcast. I had just woken up half an hour ago, and yawns were still sneaking up on me while I listened to Georgy. I squinted upward, smiling, "That'd be great. Nobody's home though, right?"

"_No,_" Georgy said surely. "_I'm here with Bea. Beatrice Reynolds, you'll meet her. She keeps the house. She has been since we were really little. …Well, where are you now?_"

"My uncle says we'll be in Statesville in a few hours. I don't know what the hell that means," I laughed. "I guess past his description of I-77, he lost me completely."

Georgy snorted, "_Well, I already gave you more directions. Past Statesville, you're not far at all. We're about forty-five minutes away. You can't miss us. We're cut off from existence_."

"Really," I asked dryly, grinning. "That's a little contradictory. Big house?"

"_Kind of_," she snorted. "_Old renovated Colonial home? White, rickety? You really won't miss it. Ring me up when you're in Statesville, I'll give you directions on how to find Ashcroft and then Pemberley from there._"

"Er…'kay."

"_And Lizzy?_"

"Yeah?"

"_Thank you_," she said sincerely.

"Georgy--"

"_I'll see you soon!_" Click, and then nothing.

I sighed and shoved my phone away, clutching my jacket closely around my body. It was breezy and kind of warm for early March, and I was enjoying it, wind whipping through my hair and all. I glanced over my shoulder. Trish and Benny were still inside.

They were good sports about it. Trish wasn't too thrilled, this was clear. It was _her _brother, but we were ahead of schedule anyway. Benny was happy. He needed time off of his feet.

I wouldn't know how to look at myself if I wouldn't have at least _attempted _to speak to Georgy. It had dogged my mind since Rosings. Her brother, thankfully, was in the city for the day. I had made sure of it ("Cross your heart, hope to die, pinky _swear _that Will isn't home? "_Over the phone?_" "Yes!" "_Fine._"). My nerves were a little less fried.

It was around four thirty when we arrived outside of Statesville, exhausted, weary and lost. We weaved in and around this tiny secluded district called Derbyshire, and an even smaller one dubbed Ashcroft. And after thirty minutes dedicated to making wide, open circles trying to find _one route_, Georgy's directions lead us sleepy-headed, irritated Philadelphians through a gorgeous scenic road through woods just beginning to regain their buds, past a babbling brook and an abandoned barn to a large, white Colonial perched high on a grassy hill, winding trees paving stone pathways all the way down the property.

It. Was. _Gorgeous_. My jaw dropped.

_Rickety, my ass._

"God," Trish craned her neck out of the window. "Renovated mansion, I'm thinking? Looks ancient."

"It's beautiful," Benny laughed. "You know somebody who _lives _here, Lizzy?"

"I think so," I whipped around. "This is the Pemberley neighborhood, right? The address she gave you?"

Ben was inspecting the corner of the map he had scribbled on, "Hon, this is called the Pemberley Estate. It's an _estate_."

I opened my mouth and closed it.

_And Will Darcy actually lives here._

I chased the thought out of my head.

It was just so… Pemberley was …well, _beautiful_. It was all trimmed hedges and winding bare trees and thick, grand pillars, green shutters, and arched domes and cobblestone walkways, and more windows than I could count in a single _sitting_. And he _lived _here. It was something plucked out of a period piece and rooted down in some knoll in a remote patch of _no_where.

"These Darcys," Trish asked, getting out of the car. "Old money?"

"I …I don't know."

"Let's find out!" she grinned. She raised a hand, tracing the shape of the roof from far away, "Oh, look at the east section, Ben. Remember that Spanish Colonial we saw in Pasadena? Doesn't that remind you of it? Look at that inlay."

"It's definitely unique," he nodded, turning to me. "Let's go in?"

"Um," I cleared my throat. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

It was even more remarkable up close. I forgot to greet the lady of the house when she opened the door, mouth hanging open as I stood on my tiptoes, neck craned all the way backward to see the rest of the house.

"_Lizzy_," Trish elbowed me sharply.

"Wha--? Oh," I snapped back, embarrassed. The woman was small and shrewd looking, dark eyes narrowed, crows feet apparent. She had her lips pursed. "May I help you?"

Since neither of my companions would speak, I guessed this was my territory. "Hello, I'm a friend of Georgy's. Uh, Georgiana's. I'm Elizabeth Bennet. She's expecting me. Unless this isn't the right house, which is a _pretty _good possibility, _I'm _not sure--"

She interrupted me, "This is Pemberley. You must be Lizzy." I raised an eyebrow, and her expression softened. "And we _are _expecting you. Georgy's in the sitting room."

"You have a _sitting room_?" asked Trish, astonished. "Those are still _around_?"

She looked at her critically (probably not a fan) and turned back to me, "I'm Beatrice Reynolds; I keep this house."

"Can I call you Bea?" I grinned.

"…Maybe."

"…Okay."

For all my fawning, Pemberley was probably even prettier inside. Its foyer alone was dome shaped, wooden inlay carved in intricate designs, stained glass windows making rippling patches of color on the marble floor. I was temporarily distracted. In front of us stretched a winding staircase, something fresh out of a fairytale.

"How is this place _real_?" I found myself mumbling.

Mrs. Reynolds ("Can I call you Bea _now_?" "Still thinking about it") smiled quietly. "Right this way."

I was barely two feet inside the sitting room, my aunt and uncle trailing behind me, before I was hit by something. A _girl _shaped something, whose arms winded around my waist and threatened to squeeze all breath out of my body. I wheezed, "Georgy! _Asphyxiation!_"

She snorted, pulling away, "You haven't changed one bit." She grinned at me, blue eyes tracing over my face, "Except you're cuter. Probably because I haven't seen you in months. No, you're just cuter. Oh and you cut your _hair_! And -- oh. Hello," she craned her neck past me. "You must be Lizzy's aunt and uncle."

"Oh, right. Aunt Trish, Uncle Benny, this is Georgy," I stepped to the side, grinning. "Georgy, my aunt and uncle."

"Nice to meet you," she smiled widely, extending a hand. I cocked my head at her, surprised. She had been so _shy _when I first met her. Mrs. Reynolds shut the door behind us, her hands folded.

"Bea, you've met Lizzy."

"She won't let me call her Bea," I mumbled.

"Give her time," Georgy insisted, laughing. "Could you give Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner a tour, by any chance? Lizzy and I will catch up in a bit, I just want to talk for a little while."

"That okay?" I whirled around, eyebrows raised at Trish.

"Are you kidding?" she snorted. "Lead the way. I'm a kid in a candy store."

Mrs Reynolds nodded, smiling tersely. She didn't seem too pleased, but you know. "This way," she chirped. They filed out of the room, Trish jittery and Benny rolling his eyes, shoulders slumped.

"Sorry," Georgy winced. "Didn't mean to separate you guys." I snorted at her and she lit up, lunging for a hug again.

"God," I laughed, ducking out of the way, "I missed you too."

"Did I mention you look cute? Because you look really, really cute."

"You've …gotten a lot weirder since leaving Philly, haven't you?"

"It's possible."

I laughed and took a seat beside her near the coffee table. She shoved a cup into my hands, which was apparently tea in the cutest, daintiest, floral sense of the word. I looked up at her, "I'm sorry, I forgot to bring my bonnet. Is that okay? I mean, I have petticoats in the trunk, it's just that--"

She elbowed me and I giggled, "I'm sorry, but have you _seen _your house? And the _sitting room_? And the _tea_?"

She looked at the tea. "I see the tea."

"…That's cool. I see a lot more."

Georgy snorted, shaking her head. She had gotten taller, I noticed, or maybe a little lankier. She was definitely more tired, with purplish shadows rimming her eyes. But she seemed so completely happy, blue eyes bright, her nearly black hair falling out of its bun, wisps framing her face.

"I'm sorry if I'm a mess," she apologized. "I was kind of running around today."

"No, you're fine," I said. "You just look tired."

"Oh. Classes," she shrugged. "Heavy load, I guess."

"Mm."

There was a sufficient silence, and then Georgy glanced up warily, "Lizzy, I'm sorry. For not being honest with you. I'm sorry for leaving like I did; I didn't realize it would upset you guys so much."

And suddenly reality was back, grounded in front of us. Sometimes even jokes can't beat it away.

I shrugged, tracing my cup absently, "Don't worry about it. I understand. I mean, I wish you'd told me, but I'm mostly mad at myself for it."

She frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I knew Wickham. I could have easily warned you."

"Ah, right," Georgy nodded. "Will told me that too."

I raised an eyebrow sharply, "What _else _did Will tell you?"

Georgy gave a very diplomatic answer; she took a long sip from her cup, pretended to be interested in something on the mantle, and said nothing. I slumped.

"How's Jane?" she finally asked.

"Okay," I shrugged. "Seeing other people. It's not working."

"Heard about that too. The breaking up with Charlie thing."

"And you didn't do anything."

"In my defense," she winced, "I found out about it a lot later than it actually happened. Will was back from Rosings by the time I heard about it. And I had other things distracting me at the time. Will was …well, yeah, I just had other things on my mind."

I didn't say anything.

Georgy took my hand, smiling slowly, "I missed you though. I missed _both _of you. Did you guys get a new housemate?"

"Uh, some prospective candidates," I laughed. "Most were shitty. Most were _guys_, which Jane was pretty much against from the get-go. We need a better way of advertising. I guess pubs aren't the brightest idea."

Georgy snorted, eyebrows raised.

"That's what you get when you enlist Charlotte Lucas to help you housemate-hunt. She thought it would be _funny_."

Bea Reynolds poked her head in the doorway, "Hi, Georgy?"

Georgy smiled, "Hi, Bea."

"Oh my God, have you _seen _this chandelier? Ben, _look_! Is that …is that glass or…?"

I slapped a hand to my forehead, laughing. Apparently Trish was enjoying herself a lot more than anticipated. Bea tried her best not to look agitated. But when Georgy asked her what was up, she grinned ear to ear, "Good news. Will's home early. He's in the driveway. "

I might have squeaked. No, seriously. I'm pretty sure a distinct, dying _mouse _sound escaped from my mouth. I almost shattered my cup.

Georgy didn't pay any attention, "Oh, he must have finished early."

"_What?_" I sputtered. Georgy whirled around, eyes wide. I pointed a finger at her, "_You _said--!"

"Oh, right," she laughed, disturbingly calm about it. "Honest, I thought he was going to be in the city all day. He was booked with meetings. Oh Lizzy, I wouldn't worry about it--"

But I was already on my feet, "You have to hide me."

"Sorry?" she gaped, laughing.

"_Hide me_."

"Don't you think you're being a _little_--"

"Fine, if _you _won't help me, I'll figure it out myself."

"Lizzy, come on!" She was _giggling_.

"Is this a closet?"

"That's a bathroom."

"Is _this _a closet?"

"Well, _yes_, but --"

"_Good_."

At that, I wrenched open the door closest and shut it behind me, completely encased in darkness -- and cushy winter coats. I poked my head out at the last minute, Georgy trying to contain herself in front of me. "Oh, and one word, Georgy. _One word! _I'll ruin your life, I promise you."

"I wouldn't put it past you," she teased. "Comfy in there?"

"I hate you."

Then I froze, footsteps echoing through the foyer. Bea was talking to somebody, her tone pleasant and light. A man's voice responded. I shut the door and sank down among old blankets and jackets, hugging my knees to my chest, face flaming hot.

"Maybe I should look for my self-respect while I'm down here," I muttered, pressing my hands against my face. _God, how embarrassing. I'm officially a little kid. No, you know what? I am _protecting _myself! I am salvaging a mortified _soul_! Honestly, if this doesn't work, I can always move. I hear upstate New York has good real estate. I like log cabins. I could be the town shut-in. I could be Boo Radley!_

I could be certifiably insane.

And then I heard him and stopped, pressing my ear against the door. I couldn't exactly hear what he was saying, but suddenly Georgy was _giggling _something again and I got ex_tremely_ paranoid.

I heard Will then, deep voice surprised, "_Really?_"

"Yeah," snorted Georgy.

"You're making this up."

"I'm _not_," she laughed. "Over there."

…_Oh please, don't tell me she just did what I think she--_

The door opened and light flooded the closet, tall Will Darcy looming above me, mouth hanging open in shock. I cringed.

"Hi, Lizzy," Will said quietly.

"Hi," I replied, dying a little inside.

"…How are you?"

"I'm not hiding in your closet."

"Oh," he rubbed the back of his neck, blue eyes curious. "Right."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"…I think so."

"As long as you're sure."

"Can you just," I hesitated, mimicking the gesture. "Close the door? Just for an itty bitty second? I swear, I got this."

"You want me to close the door?" he raised an eyebrow. "Just close you in again?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."

"But--"

"Just _close _it!"

He blinked and stepped away, clicking the door shut. And dying of embarrassment, I found an old blanket, balled it up and vented it for a good thirty seconds. Then I stood up, brushed off my jeans, and stepped out of the closet, ready to face the Darcy siblings.

Georgy was pointing, "Did you just …quietly scream? In there?"

"_No_."

"But it _sounded _like--"

"How are you?" Will suddenly asked. I glanced up.

Will Darcy seemed …well, he seemed calm. A little hesitant, but I drew relief from the fact that the expression that had haunted me for a couple of months, all dark-eyed and wounded beyond belief, was absent from his face. And his eyes were bluer than they were at Rosings. Or else, it seemed like it in this light.

"Lizzy's on her way down to Myrtle with her aunt and uncle," Georgy breezed by. "Heck of a drive, I know."

"Oh," Will said, surprised.

"Yeah, she just wanted to visit me for a bit. They were passing through States--"

"I didn't know you would be _home_," I blurted. He raised his eyebrows. I blushed more. _Damn_. "I just meant …I didn't want to intrude."

"You're not--"

"I …want to go see what Bea is making for dinner," said Georgy cheerfully. She beamed, waved, and practically _skipped _out of the room. It was so fast I didn't even have any time to threaten her. I gaped.

"So," Will cleared his throat. "You're okay?"

"How do you mean?"

"In good health, I'm guessing?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"…That's good."

"…Yeah."

"Would you excuse me?" Will asked politely. I blinked and moved aside, and he gave me a strange kind of nod before disappearing out of the room. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

At least it was over.

_Now I just have to get out of here._

* * *

To say that Will Darcy had _not _spent the majority of his time thinking about Elizabeth Bennet in the last three months would have been a blatant, simply insulting lie. While he was fairly convinced it would take a strange realignment of the stars (or maybe just a bribe to Georgy) to see the girl who had so effectively rejected him again, he had simply not anticipated such an arrival. And curled up on the floor of his _coat _closet no less, brown eyes wide and shining, face positively flushed, body compacted into a tiny, Lizzy-shaped ball.

Will had never seen her look so _terrified_; he had to stifle a laugh.

Of course, two things crossed his mind. One, she seemed pretty damn mortified. Two, mortification normally led to _bolting_. For this reason, he changed out of his work clothes as quick as humanly possible and practically _sprinted _downstairs in jeans and a t-shirt. And then his face fell.

He couldn't find her. She wasn't in the sitting room. Nor was she in the kitchen, and there was _coffee _out, for God's sake. Will sighed, taking a seat at the foot of the stairs.

And then he caught it: snippets of conversation, coming near the dining room. He snapped his head up. _Lizzy's_ voice, and Bea's, and somebody else's -- a woman's. He smiled crookedly and got to his feet, walking briskly around the corner.

Lizzy was tugging on an older woman's sleeve, almost like a petulant child's, her eyes big and her body language impatient. "_Please_, Aunt Trish. I think I forgot something. In the café. Twenty-seven miles ago, by the Exon, _see_? I remember! Let's go."

"Lizzy, don't be ridiculous," the woman snorted, brushing her hair back. "You came here to visit your friend, and Benny and I obliged, didn't we? Plus, Mrs. Reynolds just invited us for dinner. You can't very well _decline_."

Lizzy passed a hand over her eyes, "You very well _can_! Say no. You don't want to im_pose_, do you?"

"It's really no problem," Will insisted, and Lizzy whipped around, startled. He cleared his throat, wincing a little. "I'm sorry. My name's Will Darcy. I'm Georgy's older brother." Trish looked at him carefully as he approached.

"Ben Gardiner," the older gentleman next to Lizzy introduced himself, taking Will's offered hand. "I'm Lizzy's uncle. This is her aunt Trish. She glares a lot."

"I do _not_," she muttered, swatting him lightly across the chest. She eyed Will critically, "So, you run this estate, I'm guessing?"

"I do," he smiled slightly.

"It's beautiful, I've got to say."

Will couldn't help the swell of pride. "Thanks," he grinned. "We try to take good care of it. It's been in our family for ages. Family history, I guess."

But Trish Gardiner had already brightened, "I was just sharing with my husband, the inlay work in the foyer is absolutely _gorgeous_. What kind of wood is that?"

"Oh, thank you. Birch."

"And the floors?"

"Hm," he paused, looking down. "We actually went through renovations a few months back. Mainly Cherry. Laminate. We used Spanish Cedar in this room though. We thought it would play off the light well."

"_We_?" inquired Ben Gardiner.

Will shrugged uncomfortably. "Me and a couple of friends. We stripped the floors. It was a summer job. Georgy helped."

"Impressive," Lizzy's uncle commended, nodding. Will smiled in thanks.

Lizzy still wasn't looking at him. He wasn't sure if he should find this as cause for amusement or concern. He cleared his throat, "As I was saying, any relative of Lizzy's is always welcome. And you're probably tired from your trip; I insist you stay for dinner."

"We'd love to," Ben smiled.

"What happened to being pressed for _time_?" asked Lizzy shrewdly.

"Oh, Lizzy, where are your manners?" said Trish. "He _insisted_."

Will Darcy was suddenly very thankful for these Gardiners.

"So, you two know each other already?" Ben asked, glancing swiftly to his niece and back.

"Yes, Lizzy and I met late last summer. My sister was her housemate."

"You two have _history_," laughed Trish, most likely unaware of just how much truth her comment contained. Lizzy colored, and Will couldn't fight back a smile.

"Anyway," she clapped her hands. "That Reynolds lady somehow disappeared. We didn't even see the sunroom, and she was boasting about it."

"Honey, come _on_," started Ben. "That's not necessary."

"Oh," Will winced. "Sorry about that, she must have gone off to make dinner. She's an excellent cook. Another reason you should stay, by the way. And I'd be happy to show you the rest of the house, if you want."

"That would be great," Ben grinned.

Will nodded once and laced his hands in back, Lizzy falling into step beside him as he led them past the staircase. She eyed him carefully, one eyebrow raised. "What?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No, I'm not," she murmured quietly. "Just …ignore me. I'm acting weird, I know."

"You're not," he said, smiling a little. "I know you didn't plan on seeing me."

"Yeah," she laughed lightly, dark eyes downcast. "There is that. _And _the closet."

Will watched her as they walked, how she bit her lip, willing to get over some left over embarrassment. He held back a smile. It was somehow …adorable beyond words, if not mildly ridiculous. They were passing the main, circular window just at the foyer and the light from the dying sun framed her strangely, illuminating the gold in her hair and the smooth curve of her cheek.

She caught him looking, and if it was even possible, her face flushed even more.

"Do you like the house?" Darcy asked her, attempting to ease some discomfort.

"I do. It's beautiful."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Glad it's beautiful or glad that I _like _it?" Lizzy asked carefully, some of the liveliness back in her face. She was teasing him.

"Glad that you like it," he murmured, the corner of his mouth turning upwards. "Glad that you're here."

Lizzy looked away, possibly to conceal another blush. Will grinned.


	21. Like a Rolling Stone

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty One: _Like A Rolling Stone_)

I was fairly certain that my life had become _Invasion of the Body Snatchers._ The victim was Fitzwilliam "Will" Darcy. Only, he wasn't exactly a Pod Person, because that would imply a catatonic state. But I was 99.89% sure that something or some_body_ had possessed him. And who would do such a thing? Drumroll, if you will...

Jane Bennet.

Think about it, it's pretty plausible. My sister has this uncanny ability to not only gush absolute pleasantry and sweetness but also make you feel _guilty_ in the process for being such a juvenile little asshole in comparison. And Will Darcy had been taken over by somebody who was warm and inviting and obliging and ridiculously understanding. And it was _wigging me out_.

Why? Well, for starters, I wasn't sure if, deep down, he'd always been like this or if this was just a ruse to make me feel even guiltier for judging him like I did back in December. Was his behavior a "See, I'm genuinely _not_ a shithead" kind of shtick or was it more "Man, if you hated yourself by the end of my _letter_, you're in for a treat now"? Was it both? Analyzing this alone had me mentally exhausted. I was never sure.

I was also never more awkward.

As Georgy and I roamed Pemberley's property, exploring this fairytale landscape that probably _hadn't_ witnessed the Peeping Toms and Christmas light malfunctions and potty accidents that _my_ yard had, I felt myself kind of drawing inward. I forgot to speak most of the time.

It wasn't until we took a seat at the gazebo that Georgy called me out on it, Will lingering patiently beside us. Bea had returned to sum up her tour and was leading the Gardiners inside, and Georgy elbowed me to get my attention: "You're really, _really_ quiet," she announced. "It's creeping me out."

I shrugged, not knowing what to say. I guess this didn't really help my cause. Will laughed. I avoided his eyes.

"Maybe she's tired," he suggested, taking a seat next to his sister. "We have a guest bedroom upstairs. It hasn't been used in years, but I could have Bea air out new sheets."

"No, that's fine," I said quickly, fiddling with my jacket zipper. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?" he asked politely.

"Just ..._that_." I winced, "That whole _hospitable_ thing."

Darcy looked amused. "Sorry, I didn't realize it offended you."

I rolled my eyes, "It doesn't _offend_ me. It's just ...nice."

The Darcy siblings looked at me like I had just spoken fluent Japanese.

"Okay," I laughed awkwardly. "I _guess_ I'm trying to say that I don't want to impose."

"Then just _say_ that," Georgy snorted. "My God, you're like me, freshman year of high school."

"She's not wearing a Star Wars t-shirt," Darcy mumbled, looking away. Georgy hit him and he snorted, slinging an arm around her shoulder. I smiled. At least this was an area of familiarity; I had always thought Will Darcy to be exceptionally sweet to his younger sister. I could deal with this.

"Oh," Georgy winced. "I guess I should apologize for totally telling Will where you were hiding. I couldn't help myself."

"I'm pretty sure I would have found you anyway," Will said. "I use that closet a lot."

I reddened, "I _panicked_, okay? And Georgy, you're not forgiven. You suck at promises."

"I never promised," she grinned.

I looked at her for a moment, "You probably get along _really_ well with Rich Fitzwilliam, don't you?"

"She does," Darcy said.

I laughed and he smiled, holding my gaze.

Georgy clapped a hand on my shoulder, "Let's go in and see if dinner's ready." She stood up and stretched. "Last one inside is a …" her brow crinkled. "Damn, I can't think of anything."

"Rotten egg?" Will suggested.

"That's so overused," she scowled. She sighed, "Last one inside is ...a big...jerkface, bye!" At that, she hopped off of the gazebo and sprinted down the pathway, her long black hair whipping behind her. I snorted.

"That was really original."

"Why did you panic?" Darcy asked suddenly. I turned around to face him. He was still sitting down, his elbows resting on his knees so that his hands dangled loosely, his face tilted up towards me. "Earlier, I mean," he elaborated. "Why did you freak out?

And because the truth was extremely muddled, congealed and gray, I could only grind out: "I don't know."

He looked unconvinced, "I'm sorry if I made you so uncomfortable."

There it was. Was it guilt-inducing, sincere, or both?_ Body-snatcher or Will Darcy?_ It almost made me angry. The difference here was that I was angry at myself. I snapped, "Are you serious? _You're_ sorry?"

"Yes," he blinked, one eyebrow cocked. "I'm kind of sure I just said that."

"You _can't_ be sorry," I mumbled. "That's stealing my thunder, _I'm_ the one supposed to be sorry." I slumped my shoulders, defeated. "I should probably make a list of what I'm sorry about. Because between Wickham, Georgy, and my stupidity, I could probably write a novel." There was a stretch of silence after this where Will simply stared at me.

"I thought you were already writing one," he suddenly teased. But there was an underlying earnestness coloring his voice.

"Yeah, that's true," I smiled crookedly. "But this one would be like, _epic_ and full of self-pity."

"Like _Harry Potter_."

"...Uh," I laughed. "I guess it depends on your perspective."

Will smiled slightly, but he seemed at ends with something. He was constantly chewing on his lower lip, frowning thoughtfully. I opened my mouth to say something, but then he glanced up, his blue eyes wary. With trepidation, he asked, "How is your sister?"

_Jane?_ "She's okay."

He nodded quickly, knotting his hands together. And then I understood perfectly.

"Look, Darcy--"

"I called him, after you left," he said shortly, standing up. "I guess you beat up my conscience pretty well, because I couldn't wait to get Charlie on the phone." He looked to the side, his jaw tight. "I told him everything. I want you to know that. About how Carolyn and I interfered with Jane, anyway. Charlie knows everything."

"And?" I asked quietly.

"_And_ he just started speaking to me again two weeks ago," Darcy laughed. But his tone was heavy. He was upset. There was tension in his posture and the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. It had been bothering him for quite awhile.

"Sorry."

"What?" he looked up sharply. "How is this your fault?"

"No," I corrected. "I know what it's like to fight with your best friend. I'm sorry you had to go through that. It can't be pleasant."

"I deserved it, I think."

I didn't say anything for awhile. Not that I agreed or disagreed; my mind wasn't working properly that day to begin with. We kind of just lingered. In a way, I was grateful that we had cleared the air. Some of the static was gone. And because Will Darcy had a penchant for staring at me for abnormally long periods of time (with _I-want-to-penetrate-your-**soul** _intensity), I sought to brush away some of the awkwardness with a couple questions of my own.

"So, how are you?" I asked this quickly while I was exhaling, and all the words streamed out in a slurred _Saryoo?_ more than anything else. I winced. He gave me a funny look, bemused, but he understood nonetheless.

"You really want to know," Darcy asked dryly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Uh," I laughed, "I don't think I would have asked if I _didn't_ want to know."

"You sure about that? I'm not sure," Darcy observed slowly, and I was extremely cautious of Pod Person Will Darcy's introspective glance into my psyche. It was just another factor to _wig me out_. "You're trying _really _hard to be nice," he observed casually. "Jumping through hoops, one would say."

"In all fairness, maybe you're comparing my behavior to what it was the last time you saw me," I paused reflectively. "Your memory might be a little foggy. I wasn't much of a gem. There was a pretty nasty slap involved. Some belittling. _Definitely _cringing."

"I appreciate the abridged version, thank you. But no, my memory's not _a little foggy_ at all. It's actually very clear. You have a good arm." There was no humor to this statement.

I opened my mouth and then closed it, feeling my face grow warm.

Darcy's eyebrows shot up, and he laughed so abruptly that it startled me. "You were actually going to say_ thank you_ to that!"

"I was _not_."

"Oh, come on. I know you too well."

He said it with such certainty too. I found it difficult to meet his eye. I shifted my weight and crossed my arms, glancing to the side where a dried up vine curled around one of the wooden planks of the gazebo, withered leaves bending in the wind. It had gotten considerably cooler since noon. I shivered, just once, and the next thing I knew, Will Darcy was shrugging out of his jacket, arm outstretched. I sidestepped him, snorting: "Oh, _please_. Don't do that."

"What?" he asked blankly, jacket hanging loosely from his hand. "You're cold."

"Yeah, but when you do _that_," I paused, faltering, "It's just-- Well, _don't_."

"Are you just a naturally suspicious person or do you have some anti-trust vendetta against Darcys?"

"...Is this a trick question?"

But he wasn't as patient with me anymore. He rolled his eyes and practically threw the bundled up fabric over my shoulder before he crossed the gazebo in wide-legged strides and hopped off of the first step. I balked after him and asked him where he was going. "_I'm _going inside for dinner," he said stoutly. "If _you _want to stay out, by all means, that's what the jacket's for. If you don't, you'd probably do best to follow me. If your pride can handle me holding the _door _open for you, that is."

The balled up jacket went sailing in his direction, and he caught it deftly. When we reached the door, he held the door open at such an angle that I had to duck under his arm as he held it, catching full view of his extremely smug, smiling face.

"God, you're hard to deal with," I muttered sharply.

"Oh good, you identify with the trait then," Will said pleasantly.

Unfortunately for me, there was some screwy little game going on during dinnertime that had cleverly excluded me. _Everybody_ seemed to be in on something, their hands firmly rooted in the cookie jar. It started with seating arrangements. You wouldn't think it would be so difficult, right? But _no_. I took a seat beside Benny, Trish and Bea sitting across from us in a pair, the Darcy siblings we assumed would be at both heads of the table. Suddenly, Benny scooted over one for no real reason, leaving a space open beside me, which who else took, but Will Darcy himself. I slumped in my seat.

It was a good thing Bea Reynolds was an exceptional cook. It took my mind off of Will's constant attempts at sparking conversation, and the meaningful glances Georgy would give me across the table, _and _Aunt Trish's futile attempts to catch my eye, because she had probably figured out that _something _was going on. I filled up my plate with mashed potatoes and chicken cutlet and salad. And a roll of bread. And a glass of Ginger Ale. Or two. I was actually really hungry; I didn't understand why until I remembered that I hadn't eaten anything but half a bagel early that morning.

But the cookie jar game didn't stop at the seating. Every other topic of conversation that was instigated usually had a similar focal point in mind.

First Trish, who I _really _should have spoken to prior. She smiled across the table at the master of the house: "So Will, you know our Lizzy through Georgy?"

I looked up distrustfully, mouth hanging open and full of mashed potatoes. Bea gave me a reproachful stare and I remembered to close it.

"Yes, Mrs. Gardiner," Will said politely, fork halted mid way to his mouth.

A short giggle, "Oh, _please_, call me Trish."

Dear God, she had actually just _giggled_. My Aunt Patricia Gardiner, balls of steel, hard hitting, travel savvy realtor. Giggling.

Benny coughed into his napkin but it sounded like warbled, mutilated laughter.

And Georgy was really no help at all. She perked up eagerly, "Yep, _I_ introduced them. Why do you ask?"

"I guess I'm just surprised that you weren't mentioned," Trish said delicately to Will, lifting her glass. "You two seem to get along so _well_."

"Don't they just?" Georgy chirped.

"Uncle Benny, I like your watch; is it new?" I asked quickly, pointing across the table. Benny lifted his eyebrows, surprised, and he inspected his wrist.

"Uh, no."

"It _looks _new."

"But it's not."

"Tell us about it."

"...It's a watch."

I rested my head against my palm. _You people are really no help at all_. I made the mistake of stealing a sidelong glance at Will, who looked indifferent for the most part, save for the tiny upward twinge to his lips.

"Miss Bennet, how long are you in North Carolina for?" Bea Reynolds inquired, and I glanced up.

"I guess until Aunt Trish and Uncle Benny chase me out," I smiled slowly.

"We're going down to my in-laws," Benny clarified. "We planned to be there tonight of course, before we got sidetracked. We'll probably have to leave after dinner. The actual event is Friday night, but you know how it's typical to get settled a day earlier."

Georgy didn't bother to conceal her disappointment: "You can't stay?"

"No," I said softly, looking up at her. "I'd love to, Georgy, really. I miss you. But I have to be with my aunt and uncle; they're my one way ticket home."

"_We _could always take you home," Will offered, shoving his food around his plate absently.

"That's _really _nice of you, honestly. But this isn't a quick drop off fifteen minutes in another neighborhood. I'm a good three _states _away. This is ten hours and probably more when you factor in traffic frustrations," I said simply, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin.

"Don't worry about that; I wouldn't mind," Will said sincerely, and I told myself to stop looking for double meaning his words.

Trish was looking at us, "Well Lizzy, you _did _seem a little reluctant to spend time with my family. After all, you're not that well acquainted with them."

"Yeah, I _guess._ But either way_, _I couldn't ask you guys to do this."

"You didn't ask; we _offered_," Georgy corrected, a wide smile spreading on her face.

"How about this," Benny suggested, clearing his throat. "Lizzy, it's ultimately your decision. But either way, we'll be back on the road heading back to Philadelphia by Saturday afternoon. Where you spend the time between now and then is your decision; we can always pick you up. It's not much of an inconvenience."

"Spend it here," Will advised, glancing at me sharply. He hesitated, "_Please_."

I opened my mouth, strained. I couldn't possibly. Stranded here at Pemberley? Well, I suppose Georgy was here. But I would feel much more comfortable at a hotel. I voiced my opinion, but Georgy was immediately against it. "Don't be silly. Why would you book a hotel room when there's a perfectly good guest room right upstairs? There's _plenty _of room in this house, Lizzy. It wasn't meant to hold only three people."

"But what if you guys have weekend plans?"

"Consider them cleared," Darcy said.

"That's ridiculous; don't do that for me."

"No Lizzy, he's full of shit," Georgy said dryly. "Will has no weekend plans to begin with; he's a work hermit."

Darcy opened his mouth indignantly and closed it.

I looked up at my aunt helplessly, and she shrugged, "Your call, sweetheart. But _I _think it's already clear what you want."

One hour later, I was watching from the foot of the grand staircase as Trish zipped up and gathered her bags from the foyer. Benny was outside fixing a glitch with the GPS system, and Will had offered to help, escorting him outside. Georgy and Bea were in the kitchen, collecting plates (having shooed me out with shrill cries of _"You're our guest!"_), and I was left feeling kind of like dead, straddling weight. Trish brushed her hair out from under her coat collar, dark auburn curls falling into her face. She gathered them into a loose ponytail and sighed, grinning at me. "I will _miss _you, Lizbear."

I smiled at her, hugging my knees: "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Of course," she patted my hand affectionately. Trish glanced over her shoulder and back, scoping out her surroundings. Then she crouched down in front of me, her elbows resting on her knees. "I really have to ask you something though. I can't leave with_out_ asking this."

"What's up?"

Her hazel eyes were narrowed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "You _do _realize what a catch this Will Darcy is, don't you?"

"_Trish!_" I whined, pulling away from her. She laughed brightly and steadied me with her hands on my shoulders.

"I'm _serious_," Trish insisted. "There's something just so pleasant about him. And of course, I guess it doesn't do him any harm that he's ex_tremely_ attractive. And he's totally into you," she gave a lopsided smirk. "Seriously, how are you _not _picking up on this? If I were your age, hot damn."

"Oh Jesus," I scowled, pushing away. "Trish, that is so ungodly disturbing. Dinner was enough. Please stop talking."

"Hey," she raised both hands shamelessly. "I'm just telling it like it is. You better open your eyes, kiddo. Might miss something kind of extraordinary." At that, she pressed a kiss against my forehead and rose to her feet, gathering her bags. I snorted despite myself, watching her. She blew me a quick kiss and clicked the door shut behind her, letting in a cold draft that ruffled my hair.

* * *

I had made up my mind to go to bed early. There were two different motives behind this decision:

1. Well, exhaustion usually _does _tend to happen as a direct result of road trips. Sleeping cramped in the backseat of a Yukon is as comfy as it gets for I-95, but I was pretty psyched for a true blue mattress. And Bea had been an absolute doll and aired out the sheets for me and opened the windows and the whole shabang.

2. It was a little easier to avoid Will Darcy if I wasn't conscious. I was too bombarded and confused to deal with him.

So I showered and shrugged into a hoodie and pajama pants, crept under the covers and felt myself sink thankfully into the mattress. I closed my eyes.

I guess I had overlooked a negative aspect of old renovated mansions; their uncanny ability to creak and _moan _in the middle of the night, especially in tricky, wind-fueled months like March. If I was better acquainted with Pemberley, I might have been able to tune it out of my mind. But I was jittery and exhausted, and no matter which way I turned, the sounds grinding out of the walls and the floorboards made shivers run up my spine, especially in so dark a bedroom. I switched on the light. I paced. I watched fifteen minutes of _Craig Ferguson_. I played solitaire on my phone. _Fuck this_.

I gave up shortly and slipped out of the room, not exactly sure what my intentions were. Maybe to see if Georgy was still up and about downstairs. But the house was eerily quiet and dark as I slowly descended the carpeted stairs, save for the strange amber glow coming from the sitting room and spilling out onto the foyer. My breath hitched. I wasn't sure if I should turn back or not. At the last minute, I decided not to, creeping into the room on my tip toes.

It was empty, and my shoulders fell. There was a fire in the hearth though, and I smiled. On the armchair was a woven quilt and an abandoned book, and I picked it up gingerly, dusting off the spine: _A Room With a View_. Probably something Georgy had settled down with. I yawned and settled into the armchair, the glow from the fireplace toasty and inviting. I leafed through a couple of chapters of the book, quilt drawn up to my knees, eyelids getting heavy. It wasn't long before I curled up and closed my eyes.

I weaved in and out of sleep within those few hours; a couple of times, I could have sworn somebody was talking to me softly and I murmured something back, felt the quilt being drawn up over my shoulders, hair stirred just slightly. But I drifted back off easily, unable to discern dreams from reality.

* * *

Beatrice Reynolds made her usual rounds in the morning. It was a matter of custom and propriety, a devotion to a house long after its master had passed away, leaving two (already grown) children she had a motherly affection for. Six o'clock on the dot was her hour, and she dressed quickly, washed up and came into the kitchen. She set a greased pan on the stove, simultaneously filling up the kettle under the running faucet. She cracked eggs and put sausages on a skillet, and while they simmered, she swept the corners of the kitchen with a broom that had yet to fail her in twenty years. She set tea on the table, milk beside Georgy's and two slices of lemon beside Will's. Then she wiped her hands on her apron, and wondered if the plants in the sunroom needed watering. She smiled to herself and tutted; _I watered them yesterday_.

And so, having a perfectly lovely slice of time to herself, Bea resolved to the return to the sitting room where she had left a book she had read at least three times before. After all, it was her favorite. She crossed the way into the foyer, and stopped at the arched doorway curiously, a teacup cradled between her hands. There was a shape curled up in the armchair in front of the fireplace, too small to be anybody but Georgy. She snorted softly and approached, only to stop halfway. Bea craned her neck. The first thing she noticed was the light brown hair settled in interesting directions, bangs obscuring the eyes, a dusting of freckles over the bridge of the nose. She smiled._ Lizzy Bennet_.

Lizzy slept in the fetal position. Bea Reynolds took precisely thirty seconds to be amused at this, hesitating on whether or not she should wake her. It wasn't that she was eager to throw her out of her place, only that she knew Lizzy would be far more humiliated to be found there by any Darcy sibling. So she cocked her head and tapped the girl's shoulder gently. Lizzy only stirred and curled up into a more compacted ball. Bea snorted, looking at the girl.

Well, she wasn't beautiful. Truth be told, Will had dated more refined girls. Bea thought that she was reasonably pretty from first glance, if not a little ordinary. She tapped her shoulder again. Lizzy squinted up at her and yawned, closing her eyes again. Then she opened them, sat straight up, glanced at the empty hearth and back. "_Oh_. Oh, whoops."

"Here I was thinking your bed might have been somewhat comfier," Bea said dryly, stirring her tea.

Lizzy grinned bashfully and rubbed her eyes, knees drawn up to her chest. She sighed, her voice thick with sleep, "I guess it was warmer here."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was cold upstairs."

"No," Lizzy amended, hands resting loosely in her lap. "No, it was fine. I guess I got a little creeped out by how dark it was. And the house kind of has its own soundtrack in the night." At that, she imitated creaking sounds, whistling to imitate gusts of wind. Lizzy stopped abruptly at the look Bea was giving her. "Uhm. _Yeah_."

"I see," Bea smirked. "I have breakfast in the kitchen, if you'd like."

"I'd _love_," Lizzy grinned, looking up. "Thank you so much."

Bea nodded her head once. She was beginning to realize why Will had become so drawn to this girl. It had something to do with how she smiled; her eyes had a tendency of lighting up, her cheeks marred by dimples. There was warmth and liveliness to the girl and, as she realized a few moments later, a wit that must have challenged the master of the house.

Will was standing in the doorway, with his arms folded over his chest. Lizzy glanced up at him and neither of the two said anything for a minute.

"Bea, you found her here?"

"I did."

"Sorry," Lizzy mumbled sleepily, rubbing her face. "Was there a search warrant circulating?"

"No, I just assumed you had gone up into your room. You were here last night too."

Lizzy raised an eyebrow at him warily. "And how would you know that?"

"Because I... saw you here?" he answered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lizzy hesitated, hands resting in her lap. "I'm trying to decide whether I'm creeped out by the prospect of you watching me while I slept or just bizarrely flattered by it."

"I didn't _watch _you while you slept," Darcy scowled, blushing despite himself. "I was just passing by on my way to the dining room."

But Lizzy was grinning widely, laughing at him. She had been trying to get a reaction, and he had realized it too late. She got up from the armchair and clapped a hand on his shoulder, "Take a joke, Will, please and thanks."

"Would you still like some breakfast?" asked Bea patiently.

Lizzy whirled around, "Oh yes, definitely. I just want to go wash up and get dressed."

"We'll wait for you."

* * *

Friday, in its absolutely entirety, was left in Georgiana Darcy's mischievous hands to sculpt and manipulate to her liking. After all, Lizzy had stayed officially to be with _her_, a good friend and long lost housemate. Now all that was left was to incorporate another small detail. A way of subtly (or not so subtly) incorporating _Will _into the majority of the day. She raked her mind for ideas, examined scenarios of boating on the lake five miles away or simply going into town for some shopping, lunch and perhaps a movie. In the end, she sided with the latter.

"We could go into Newburgh," she practically begged Will, tugging on his sleeve. Lizzy eyed her skeptically from the breakfast table, stirring her coffee. Georgy continued, "Oh Lizzy, you'd love it. It's so charming; such a tourist spot. You have these cramped little houses and used bookshops and boutiques. There's this old Victorian on the side of Westbrook that everybody thinks a woman was _murdered _in. Oh, and a Starbucks right next to it!"

"Lovely," Lizzy laughed.

"Georgy," Will was chewing thoughtfully, "you're so weird."

But come midday, Lizzy was practically charmed by the little town. They wandered the streets cluttered with people and ate lunch outside, because March was boasting warmer weather than it had in years. Lizzy shrugged out of her jacket as they ate under a shaded table at a corner bistro, looking at the crowd of people right next door, lingering outside of a used record shop. Will suggested they go, and she shook her head, not wanting to inconvenience anybody.

"Lizzy," Georgy said, "I think he said it out of his own preference. Stop thinking that you're imposing on everything."

"On the contrary, you've managed to drag us out of the house on a Friday."

Lizzy looked up sharply, her brown eyes narrowed at the siblings. "Does this mean that you're missing classes? And _you're_ missing work?"

"Well, yeah," Georgy grinned. "But I'm just missing a couple of lectures, most of which are online. And Will doesn't work anymore."

Darcy scowled, brushing a crumb from his mouth, "Wow, Georgy, now I have to clarify before she thinks I'm lazy."

Lizzy snorted, "God, am I _that _judgmental?" Will looked at her seriously and she slumped her shoulders, scowling, "Well, fine."

"No, Lizzy knows," Georgy said, "I told her you were going to leave the company in a matter of months. He takes his LSATs in June. His weeks are spent studying now."

Lizzy nodded, remembering. Will couldn't really read her expression. She met his eye and suddenly looked to Georgy, a smile spreading slowly on her face. She glanced over her shoulder and back, pointing a finger, "You _are _checking our waiter out. I knew it."

Georgy opened her mouth, outraged. "Nuh-_uh_."

"Was it the tattoo on his hand or the insanely green eyes?"

"The eyes," admitted Georgy grudgingly. Lizzy raised her fists triumphantly.

"I'm sorry," Will started, "who are we checking out?"

"_We?_" asked Lizzy teasingly. "Georgy, you have competition; Will's scoping him out too."

"Will likes his tattoo," Georgy sighed sadly, mock glaring at her brother. "_Damn _you, Will."

"No, I think he's more of an eye man," Lizzy responded, grinning into her cup.

"_Really_?" Georgy laughed. "I don't know. He could be a butt man."

"An arse man."

"Ass man?"

"Okay," Will said, pushing off from the table. "I'd really appreciate a change in topic. One that doesn't involve admiring the waiter's eyes or his tattoo or you know, _anything else_."

"Or questionable hygiene," Lizzy mumbled, looking back from over her shoulder. "I just caught him picking his nose."

Georgy slumped, scowling: "Damn, there goes my idealization."

Lizzy sipped from her straw silently. When Georgy got up to use the bathroom, she let slip to Will: "So, he wasn't _really _picking his nose. But he has a tattoo and three piercings, and I might have seen him coming in on a Harley when we first got here. I'd like to think I'm saving you a heart condition."

"Lizzy, that's diabolical," Will laughed, surprised. "And _brilliant_."

She shrugged and stirred her drink.

"What would I do without you?" he asked.

"Oh, I think you'd get on fine," she snorted softly. She wouldn't look at him.

"You would think," he repeated. When she glanced up, he smiled knowingly, and she looked back down again with a scowl. But there was a pink tinge to her cheeks that hadn't been there a second ago.

Will leaned in close on his elbows, his eyes focused on her face. He had wanted to ask her something for awhile. "Hey, Lizzy?" She looked up at him curiously, and he continued, "You haven't seen George Wickham, have you?"

She almost dropped her straw, eyes wide, "_Um_."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, and he meant it. She instantly looked upset. "I was just talking to Georgy the other night. I already know that she made you promise not to tell me where she was working, I put no blame on you for that whatsoever. But I know you used to work with him."

"I haven't seen him," Lizzy said curtly. "I would tell you if I had."

"Would you really?"

"_Duh_," she muttered, pushing off from the table. "Look Will, I take responsibility in not looking into the situation further. I warned Wickham to back off, and I put enough trust at stake to believe that he had. For that, I think I'm sorry enough. But you put such a short leash on her; no wonder she was too afraid to tell you anything."

Darcy's mouth hung open in shock. He closed it quickly, "_Short leash?_"

"Didn't you ever wonder why I accused you of whisking her back here?" Lizzy asked patiently. "I mean, it was obviously a _wrong _assumption, but I had enough evidence on my side. You wanted to control where she went to university, who she associated with, where she _worked_. Honestly, she might as well have been pole dancing instead of playing the guitar, that was how afraid she was of upsetting you. You have very high expectations of her."

If this conversation had occurred months ago, Lizzy would have expected him to scowl at her and fire back something like, "So you're saying it's _my _fault" while sanctimoniously defending himself. But Will Darcy just sat back, startled, and Lizzy watched his mouth settle into a grim line. He looked down into his lap and mumbled, "If she was just open with me... If I had just encouraged her to be open with me..."

"No, look Will," Lizzy winced, apologetic for the look on his face. "I'm not defending her decision making process, and I'm _definitely _not saying this is your fault. It's not. I understand that you love her more than anything else in the world. But I think she'd like to know that you can trust her. _Especially _after everything that happened with Wickham."

Will looked up at her and nodded. "I'll talk to her."

"Okay."

"I don't _mean _to be controlling."

"I know."

"It kind of just," he winced, groping for words, "It's just the way--"

"_I know_," she laughed.

Georgy found them again, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. She looked up warily, "What are we talking about?"

"You," Lizzy teased. Georgy rolled her eyes and sunk down to a seat beside her brother.

"Fine, don't tell me," she muttered.

"Fine, we won't," said Lizzy. Will rubbed his mouth to conceal a smile.

After lunch, the trio stopped by an adjacent record store, scoping out stacks and listening to music. Lizzy bought a Bob Dylan record, and Will brushed through some old David Bowie albums, primarily _Hunky Dory _and _Aladdin Sane_. They visited a hand-me-down book shop and grabbed coffee an hour later, catching full glimpse of the creaky Victorian an old woman had allegedly been butchered in ("Bullshit," Lizzy had laughed, "it's probably a neighborhood myth" to which Georgy had raised an eyebrow, "That's what they _all _say").

By evening, they were back on the road heading towards Ashcroft. Lizzy yawned into her fist as they crossed the bypass, and Will glanced over at her, his hands on the wheel. "Maybe you should try sleeping in a _bed _tonight," he suggested.

"Maybe," she smiled. "I liked that room though. It's so toasty."

"I could put a space heater in yours."

"No," she shrugged. "It wouldn't be the same. I don't mind."

"Well, I have a fireplace in _my _room," he said sheepishly. When Lizzy glared at him, Will laughed, "I would _trade _you, of course."

They stopped for a gas fill up shortly after and found Georgy sleeping soundly in the backseat, her head cushioned by her satchel, knees drawn up to her chest. Will said, "Guess who she reminds me of right now?"

Lizzy looked at him skeptically.

"Seriously? Rosings, on our way back from Pickwood?"

"_Oh_," Lizzy said. She laughed. "Right." She rubbed the back of her neck, unsure of why this made her so uncomfortable. She watched Will fill up and hopped up on the trunk, legs crossed Indian style. Through the windshield of the car behind them, a little boy was ramming a toy car against the seat; Lizzy grinned at him and waved, and he smiled timidly, shrinking out of view. He would pop up to sneak glances at her every few seconds. Lizzy giggled.

Darcy was looking at her, smiling slowly.

"_Don't_ do that," she pointed a finger at him crisply.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Imagine me as a mother."

"Why would you think--"

"Will."

"_Fine_."

She snorted softly and rubbed her jaw, watching him. The sun was setting behind him, and he was constantly squinting into it as it beat into his eyes, raising his hand at his brow to act as a visor. Lizzy laughed, and he spun around: "What, _you _want to try with the sun blinding you like this?"

"I think I'm up to the challenge."

She took the nozzle from him, set the switch on self operating and stepped back deftly. Lizzy waved at him, "Look Ma, no hands!"

Darcy looked defeated, "I forgot about that."

"You haven't filled up in awhile, have you?" she snorted.

"No," he admitted sheepishly. Lizzy laughed and he took a seat beside her on the trunk. He sighed, "You definitely have a way with making me feel like an idiot."

"I'm sorry," she faltered. "Well, kind of. I guess it depends on the situation; I'm not sorry when it's _amusing_."

"Thank you," Will said sarcastically.

She grinned up at him and for a moment, forgot her own personally established rule of not holding eye contact with Will Darcy for long periods of time. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards and he tentatively lifted a hand, tucking a wisp of her hair behind an ear. She stiffened and became very unsure of herself, especially when his hand lingered and cradled her cheek, his thumb brushing gently across her lower lip. She closed her eyes.

The whirring of the nozzle suddenly stopped and Will glanced over his shoulder at the numbers that had ceased climbing, giving Lizzy a chance to gather her bearings. She hopped off of the trunk and shook her hair out of its clip to smooth it in place, her back facing him and sparing him the sight of the blush that was warming her face. Will set the nozzle back a minute later and held the door open for her. "Going in?"

"Yessir," Lizzy nodded, ducking under his arm and into the car.

* * *

**Author's Note**: You guys make me so happy; thank you so much for all the support and kind words.


	22. Get Ink, Shed Tears

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Two: _Get Ink, Shed Tears_)

In life, it is only natural to make mistakes. After all, we've all had our dumbass moments. Alfred Wallace asked Charles Darwin to revise a certain theory he was independently proposing titled 'natural selection'. Napoleon Bonaparte underestimated Britain's use of Prussian allies at the Battle of Waterloo. Whitney Houston married Bobby Brown. Hey. _Been_ _there_. It's okay.

Okay fine, so I haven't fucked up _that_ badly. But I've definitely been using bad judgment since I came to Pemberley; I was handling the Darcys all wrong. And I had this sinking feeling that Will was getting the wrong impression of how I felt about him. And o_kay_, maybe no serious harm would come from this. Nothing to shake up history, anyway. But in my little bubble of the universe, this was an issue.

And I couldn't really control myself.

Every time I gathered up the gusto to try and be indifferent and detached, to ignore every single look he was giving me and every purposeful little word, I would only hold out for a few minutes tops before caving in. He would pull the _Body Snatcher_ thing and get me to laugh at a cheesy joke, or leave himself wide open for ridiculing. He would do little things like hold open doors and offer his coat and pick a dust particle out of my hair. He would grin a lot. And I wasn't pushing him away.

I swear, it's so much easier to peg someone as an asshole and be done with it. If I could, I'd stamp it on peoples' foreheads right off the bat. But once they start straddling that line between jackass and do-gooder, nothing makes sense anymore. It's like living in perpetual confusion after that.

We were barely two feet inside the Pemberley Estate before Georgy weaved her arm through mine and led me to the kitchen. She was smiling in a way that was all shifty eyes and secrecy. Honestly, if you ever meet this girl, just run away. She smells like sunshine and unicorns, _fine_, but deep down she really just wants to ruin your life. I promise you. She's an imp.

"Man, I had such a good nap in the backseat," Georgy said, patting my hand. "Was I out for long?"

"About half an hour," I answered skeptically.

"Oh, right. _Yeah_, I started to wake up when we stopped to fill up for gas." She turned to face me, her eyes wide and innocent, "You were having _such_ a nice time with my brother, weren't you? It's such a shame the meter interrupted it."

I gave her .5 seconds before I lunged, and she leaped out of the way and burst into giggles.

"You were supposed to be _asleep_!" I said, blushing. "God, you're a pain in the ass."

"Warming up to Will, _aren't_ you Lizzy?" Georgy teased with a grin. "Oh come off it, I'm not completely deranged."

"No, just _delusional_," I snapped, rolling my eyes.

"Hey, I know what I saw."

"What, me waiting for your brother to fill up the car?"

"Yes, but also something that starts with 'f' and ends with 'ing'," she started, and her face screwed up in horror a second later. "Wait a minute, that came out wrong."

"_Wow_."

"I meant flirt--"

"Miss Bennet," Bea Reynolds suddenly called, and I was surprised to find that we had argued ourselves all the way into the kitchen. Bea was stirring something in a pan, her apron tied neatly around her waist. She tossed something orange at me and I reached out instinctively, catching my cell phone in my hands. "You left it on the counter this morning."

"Good arm," I smiled. The battery was dead and I made a mental note to charge it later, shoving my phone in my jean pocket. Georgy was still staring at me judgmentally, and I reached out and messed up her hair. "Stop looking at me like that. You're silly and young and you don't know anything about life." I paused. _I'm pretty sure I've said this to Lydia before. _

She gaped at me, "You're not _that_ much older, Lizzy. And you're so completely full of shit."

"_Georgy_."

"Sorry, Bea."

Late evening was creeping up on us, and given the fact that it was "Lizzy Bennet's best Friday night in years" (She-Darcy's words, not mine), we decided to do something _so_ completely extraordinary and Facebook status warranting, it would shake the very foundation of civilization for years to come.

We rented a movie.

_With_ microwave popcorn.

Maybe now you understand the shaking civilization part.

So we settled down in the family room, Georgy beside Will and Will with his laptop ("Just taking care of some emails") and popped in _A Knight's Tale_. I sat at the far end of the couch, one that wrapped around in little sections, and Georgy raised her eyebrows at me. "You know, there's room over _here_." She pointed to a patch of couch beside her brother.

"I like my space," I murmured, taking a sip from my cup of tea.

I also like not sitting next to Will Darcy and being faced with the potentially awkward situation of doing either of the following:

A) Accidentally touching elbows or knees.

B) Nodding off in the middle of the movie and finding my head conveniently on Will's shoulder.

C) _Giving him the wrong idea_.

So we watched in silence and Will closed his laptop after the first half and settled for glancing at me every ten minutes. Which was, y'know, awkward. After awhile, I snapped at him, "Wouldja stop _looking_ at me? For God's sake."

"You just look upset."

"I'm _not_."

"Did I do anything?"

"_No._"

"Then why do you look upset?"

"Dude," Georgy said sharply, "I'm in the middle of watching Heath Ledger in one of his glorious roles, and you're _ruining_ it. I get the whole_ silence is golden, duct tape is silver_ gag, but really, I'm not above that threat. If we don't have duct tape, I'll use something else. Now _shut the hell up_."

After a sufficient silence passed, Will asked, "That time of month, Georgy?"

She hit him on the shoulder and I snorted, slapping a hand to my mouth.

By the time pizza arrived, we had to rearrange ourselves so we could eat on the coffee table, so I gave up and got closer, only with my own personal promise to avoid any of the scenarios distinctly outlined previously.

Even when I felt myself drifting off, I made sure to lean against a pillow.

_How_ I woke up around the credits with my head against Will Darcy's shoulder, I still don't know.

It was almost midnight when I shuffled off to bed, muttering quick goodnights. I plugged in my cell charger into the wall and hooked my phone up. I sat at the edge of my mattress, wondering about the next day and trying with difficulty not to think about this evening. I would probably have to catch up with the Gardiners to decide how soon I had to be out of Pemberley by tomorrow. I glanced at my phone once the welcome screen passed.

_Seventeen Missed Calls_.

"Damn," I muttered, dialing my voicemail quickly.

Jane's hysterical voice pierced the silence of the room, and I froze, listening and not really listening at the same time. And then twice more. I dropped my phone.

* * *

Will Darcy wasn't sleeping when the sound caught his attention. It was twelve-thirty, true, but he couldn't find himself nodding off easily. When you're not a morning person, you're generally a night owl. It's one or the other, save for your occasional offbeat personality. He wasn't even tired, and when the sound of wheels scratching against hardwood floor rose through to the upper level of the house, he jumped to his feet in an instant and slipped out of his room carefully.

His room overlooked the foyer, and he peered out, down past the staircase where a shape was huddled, trying carefully not to thump a suitcase across the floor. And because he could think of nobody _else_ who would do this, his heart sank with disappointment. Darcy clutched the railing, and sprinted downstairs quickly, stopping halfway. "Lizzy? It's you, isn't it?"

She froze, and this confirmed it. He switched on the light next to the stairs and walked up, "You're not really _leaving_, are you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light and failing miserably. It had something to do with the fact that she wouldn't face him, and it made him agitated. He repeated her name gently and put a hand on her shoulder. "I've done something wrong again, haven't I? I've fucked up."

Lizzy turned around, and Will caught sight of her face, ghostly pale. The rims of her eyes were red and puffy, and her mouth was set and determined. She just shook her head and said meekly, "I-I have to go. I'm very sorry. I just ...I have to go."

"You've been crying," he confirmed quietly. Miserably.

Lizzy pinched the bridge of her nose and sniffed loudly, just once, before she straightened up and said it all very bluntly. "Will, my father was taken into the emergency room around three hours ago. Jane says he went into cardiac arrest, I-I ...the rest I'm not sure about. I've barely gotten in contact with my mother, and it's too late to call the Gardiners. I've called a cab, and I'll get to the bus station. Me sneaking off has nothing to do with you or Georgy; I just thought it would be more convenient this way. I don't want the drama. But I have to go now."

Her voice was soft and controlled, but she probably didn't realize that her reserve had splintered a little; tears were rolling slowly down her face and Will found his hands moving without any thought, wiping them away. He kept his hands on both sides of her face and she looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"It's my fault," she barely said. "It's my fault. I didn't listen. He's so stubborn. And I didn't read between the lines. It's my fault."

"It's not," he soothed.

"It is," she said, and then she wouldn't listen to him anymore. She clutched the handle of her suitcase and Will wrapped his hand around her wrist, forcing her to look up at him.

"Lizzy, I'll drive you."

"It's a long, _long_ way, Will. I don't want you to."

"I don't care. I'm driving you."

"_Will_--"

"I'm going outside to get rid of the cab driver. Get your things. I'll come back inside for you."

So he paid off the cab and loaded her bags into his trunk, leaving quick word with Bea. Within ten minutes, they were on the road and Lizzy was curled up in the passenger side, trying desperately to get her mother and sisters on the phone. He caught snippets of her conversation with one of the younger ones (Marin, was it?), picking up familiar words like _bypass_ and _heart attack_ and _angioplasty_ and _coronary artery_. His mouth felt dry and his hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. He had lost his father only two years ago.

Lizzy had her head tucked between her legs, and Will didn't prompt her for any questions. He assumed that if she needed to speak, she would. And he was right. She turned and said, "The doctors say Dad's had several small heart attacks within the last couple of months without any medical treatment. He's written them off as anxiety attacks. He's at St. Mary's now."

"How's he doing?"

"He needs bypass surgery. They have to stop his heart."

And they had been fine for twenty (tearless) miles, but as soon as the words left her, Lizzy choked back a great hiccup of a sob and pressed her hands against her mouth, her shoulders shaking with little spasms. And Will was torn between looking at the road and looking after her. His hand found hers.

"I'm sorry," Lizzy said, tears streaming down her face. She sniffled noisily and wiped them away with the back of her sleeve, knees tucked against her chest. In this light, she looked like nothing more than a scolded child.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Lizzy."

"Yeah, I do," she laughed weakly, sniffing. "Do you have a tissue?"

"In the backseat," Will said, watching her with concern. She unbuckled and got up on her knees, stretching behind until she found a box of Kleenexes. And then she repeated what she had said inside, about believing her father's blatant lies about anxiety and her own stupidity for doing so. He counted the word 'dumbass' seven times in one sentence.

They rolled up to a stop light and Will was given the chance to face her. She was dabbing under her eyes with a tissue, and he sighed, "Lizzy, this is _not_ your fault. You keep saying it, and it isn't. You have to understand that."

"But I could have prevented it if I was just a _little_ more perceptive."

"But circumstances shape everything. Shit happens. When are we _always_ perceptive?"

"You don't understand."

"I understand a lot more than you think."

She didn't say anything, and he curled his fingers underneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her eyes were watering again, and Will opened his mouth to say something. Obviously the usual rakes one's mind in a time like this. _He'll be okay, just you wait and see_, or _don't worry_, or _he's in good hands_. Will grimaced, and the words were all mind numbingly familiar. Trite and cold and empty. Maybe it was insensitive, but still.

_Fuck, I don't want to potentially _lie_ to her._

So he didn't say anything either. Maybe Lizzy just needed somebody to be there. He laid his hand against her cheek and Lizzy leaned into it, closing her eyes. She looked absolutely exhausted by emotion alone. When the light turned green, she shrank away and a few minutes later (by his recommendation), she had fallen asleep.

The first thing Will did was call back home to Georgy. He apologized for waking her up and kept the explanation to a bare minimum, promising to explain later. And then he asked patiently, "Georgy, can you find something for me in my study? It's in a manilla folder of the filing cabinet, the very last drawer. It's the only one in there."

"_Got it_," she mumbled with sleepy concern, and he could hear her rummaging. Her voice sounded dull with surprise, "_Oh. Dad's old file. University of Pennsylvania_."

"Good," he said, casting a quick glance at Lizzy. She was leaning against the window, her chest rising and falling slowly with her breathing. "I think it's the second paper or the third, but tell me when you see the bolded name, Dr. Allen J Shaw. It should be stapled to old medical records, underneath the nurse practitioner, one of his--"

"_I've got it_," Georgy said quietly. "_Head of Cardiology. Will, this was Dad's--_"

"I know who he is. I need his number, Georgy."

"_Promise to tell me what's going on afterwards_," she insisted. Then he waited until a slow intersection to ask for her to read off the numbers. He quickly scribbled them down on the backside of a receipt he had found in the glove compartment. And then Georgy asked quietly, "_How is Lizzy doing?_"

"It's her Dad. And," a furtive glance at her and back, "she'll be okay. She's tired and worked up."

"_Is she crying?_"

"She's sleeping."

Georgy sighed heavily, "_This is awful. Just completely unexpected. I don't know if it's worse to see it from the sidelines or from up close_."

"Up close," Will sighed too. "Trust me, up close. It wasn't _that_ long ago."

"_You're right_," she muttered, upset. "_Keep me up to speed. And Will, take care of her._"

"You really have to ask me to do that?" he said, incredulous.

"_No_," Georgy answered, and he heard the smile in her voice. "_I know how much you love her_."

She hung up and Will pocketed his phone in exchange for another. He was wincing as he scrolled through Lizzy's contact list, wondering how exactly she would threaten him if she were to find out (which caused him to take another look and make sure she was asleep).

But he had to do what he had to do. Will highlighted a name, suppressed a cringe, and dialed.

* * *

Nine and a half hours of driving was an outstanding record time for a young man who hadn't so much as taken a road trip since college. And even _that_ hadn't been half of a road trip. It was a mistake, and it involved the Las Vegas strip, a little too much alcohol, an incredibly pissed off drifter, and Richard Fitzwilliam. Nothing else really needs to be shared to that extent.

Excluding bathroom breaks and the occasional stop for gas (or maybe more importantly, shitloads of Red Bull), Will Darcy found his over caffeinated mind jittery and distracted and prone to indulging in sad FM radio. It was Celine Dion who woke Lizzy up, just outside of Baltimore. She gasped and shot straight up, hair sticking in interesting directions, remnants of eye makeup impossibly smudged. She didn't seem to know where she was, so naturally, Lizzy lunged at hostility.

"Why the _fuck_ are we listening to Celine Dion?"

Will could've hugged her. He stared at her helplessly, and she took in the purplish shadows under his eyes, the wired twitch to his fingers, the state license plates ahead of her. And Will recognized comprehension on her face, and her shoulders slumped.

"You okay?" he asked, looking at the road.

"Yeah," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. "But you didn't answer my question."

"We're listening to Celine Dion because she stimulates anger, and anger keeps me awake."

"Let _me_ drive."

"_No_," he said crisply.

She looked up at him guiltily, attempted to say something and thought the better of it. Words weren't all that useful. Instead, Lizzy stared at her phone and reached forward for it. Will startled her.

"Your mom called. It must have been three in the morning. They've transferred him to U of Penn."

Lizzy gaped at him, "Seriously? Why? _How?_"

"She didn't say," Will said, adjusting his rear view mirror.

She was quiet for a moment. "Do you know how he's doing?"

It was his turn to look at her and gauge the reaction. "Lizzy, he's in surgery." When disappointment flickered across her face, he responded with, "You couldn't have expected to make it there on time before the procedure."

"No," she agreed.

"But you wanted to," he realized, knowing he would have too.

"Yeah," she looked up, nodding. He half expected her to start crying again, but she was quiet except for the occasional dabs at a running nose. Will was thankful. It killed him to see her as she was the night before.

After a moment, Lizzy watched him skeptically, "I can't believe you talked to my mother. I mean, thank you, but you must have got a heckling for it."

Will shrugged, taking a gulp of his drink. "Not really. I mean, you set me up to have this genuine fear, but it wasn't so bad. She's a little hysterical though. Kept talking on and on about being too young to be a widow, and some girl in the background was telling her to shut up. One of your sisters, I'm guessing."

Lizzy was scowling at her mother's ridiculous theatrics, but she smirked a little, "It was probably Marin. She's at the end of her rapidly fraying rope with Mom. And really, who can blame her?"

"She sounded kind of like you."

"_Mom_ did?"

"No. Marin."

Lizzy snorted, leaning her head back. She watched cars stream by for a little while, and then turned sideways to look at Will. He was gripping the wheel with one hand and adjusting the radio dial with the other, his brow creased, his jaw tight. He looked so goddamn tired. She filled with guilt.

It took two hours, but approximately ninety miles later, Will got her there at a relatively good time. And because Lizzy seemed weak in the knees and shaken, he insisted on being with her at least until she was with her family. Nerves were a sketchy thing. They flared up and down and hot and cold. One minute she was calm and accepting, and the next she was on the verge of tears. It depended on the surroundings, on what visual reminders triggered what. He didn't want to leave her.

A flurry through the front desk, a brief call to the mother, and they were ushered to the cardiology unit past the seventh floor, Lizzy counting the linoleum tiles and clenching and unclenching her fists as they walked down the hallway. Will rubbed her shoulders and murmured comforting words, and she nodded tensely, even though they both knew that she couldn't really hear what he was saying. It didn't matter. He was there, and she wouldn't let go of his hand.

A turn around a sharp corner to the waiting room, and then somebody blonde and pretty (despite her exhausted frumpiness) launched herself at Lizzy, burying her face into the crook of her neck. Lizzy's arms wound about Jane numbly, and she hugged her sister tight. When they separated, Lizzy wiped away errant tears from her twin's face and Jane sighed gratefully, squeezing Lizzy's hand, "Oh, thank God you're here. Mom took Marin and Kit and Lydia to the cafeteria for something to eat. We've been starving the entire night. Not much use for us now. We have another hour of surgery to go, and I'm about to shoot myself from anxiety alone."

"How long does it take?"

"Four hours, generally, but given the..." Jane trailed off. She was looking past Lizzy's shoulder, at Will who stood awkwardly to the side, arms folded across his chest. She opened her mouth, looked between both her sister and the man who she had come with, and said simply, "Oh."

Lizzy struggled for an explanation, "Oh. Right. Jane, you remember Will."

Jane raised her eyebrows and the message was clear: _Really, Lizzy? Really_.

"I er, yeah."

Her sister must have sensed that no rational explanation would come at that moment. So she pushed back all feelings of resentment and looked up at Will, "Do you want coffee or anything? You look..."

"No," he shook his head, thanking her. "I'm okay. I should probably go now, I just wanted to see her inside safe and... yeah. I'll just – bye." He turned on his heel and left the room, and Jane's eyebrows were so high that they nearly blended in with her hairline. Lizzy shifted her footing, and after thirty seconds, remembered something important.

She excused herself to Jane and apologized, then darted out of the room and sprinted down the hallway to where Will was waiting around the corner for an elevator, his posture rigid and anxiety riddled. "Wait up!" she called, and he looked up sharply with surprise.

"Lizzy?"

"_Uncool_," she said, glaring at him. "You didn't even give me a chance to thank you."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to," she said sincerely, her eyes locking with his. She shook her head, and he got the impression that she wanted to say a lot and didn't know exactly how to. Lizzy bit her lip, "I really wish I could tell you how grateful I am, but I'm not forming logical thoughts right now. I mean, _that_ was one, but I'm not sure how many are left before I burn out. I'm running purely on coffee right now."

"I think that's noticeable," Will smirked.

"I want to say thank you," Lizzy said softly, meaning it with all of her heart. Her hands shook.

And Will frowned, brushing a hand against her cheek, collecting tears. "You're crying again."

"Nerves," she laughed, but it was watery and garbled a bit. She rubbed at her eyes and sniffed. "This has been like one big whirlwind. I don't even want to think about what's going on, on that operating table. I just ...I _can't_..." She tasted salt on her lips now.

"Have some faith," Will murmured, and she closed her eyes. And then neither knew who had really embraced who, but it didn't really have all that much significance. She hugged him around the shoulders and his arms linked around her waist, her head tucked under his chin. It was fleeting, but it was warm and she felt his lips move against her hair and what scared her was her own reluctance to let go.

Then Will promised to call her later that day, and she watched him step onto the elevator, and the doors closed behind him, and she had caught a glimpse of his face, bright eyed despite the exhaustion, a flicker of a half-smile lingering. Lizzy stood in the hallway for a couple of minutes, took in a deep breath (let it out slowly), turned on her heel and marched back to Jane.


	23. Would You Like Fries with Your Crazy?

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Three: _Would You Like Fries with Your Crazy?_)

It's really my personal belief that one of the greatest agonies in life is to _wait_. It's not really a physical agony. You're not getting your fingernails pulled off or being crushed by massive stones in Salem, Massachusetts (circa 1692, I thank you). But _waiting_, that infernal method of existing right in the middle of a crisis? It spurs all kinds of insanity. And everybody handles it differently.

You have the quiet types. Jane of course, curls up into her little Jane bubble, only interrupted by foodie breaks and your occasional tabloid magazine to fend off boredom. Mom fusses and musses and runs around and stalks the doctors outside of the OR. Kit sulks. Marin decides it's a good time to distract everybody with how brilliant she is ("They _saw_ through the breast bone and unsnap it like a three-ring binder, _squelch_ open, insert a tube right in around the chest wall") and Lydia snaps back something intellectual in response ("Marin, shut the _fuck_ up"). We all have our ways.

I enjoy hospitals as much as I enjoyed the SAT, I've got to say. I've always been the _impatient_ waiter. I'm the restless one, the girl drumming the fingernails and pacing every five minutes until one of her sisters yanks her arm and commands her to sit down or face imminent doom. And I'm not the greatest person to be around during such a time. I'm twitchy, and when my weepy phase passes, the fidgeting inches into borderline Tourette's.

To tell you the truth, I didn't really know what was worse: Will Darcy seeing my _weepy_ phase or sticking around to see me lose basic muscle control. It's a toss-up. But I leaned towards the muscle thing because at least there would be no unattractive snot involved.

Speaking of you-know-who, Jane had been giving me discreet little glances about him since I came back. You know her schtik. The whole pursed lips, big eyed, "_I_ won't say anything until _you_ do" thing. It's such bullshit. So I tried to see how much tip toeing around the subject would get her to crack open and ask me about him already.

"How are things at home, Jane?"

"They're fine, Lizzy."

"Not too much work, I hope."

"None at all."

"You look a little pale."

"Just a headache."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry yourself."

"Okay."

"What the _hell_ was Will _Darcy_ doing here?"

Lydia looked up at the raised voice. And even though life was generally sucky at the moment, I couldn't help but crack a smile at how predictable Jane was. _She_ didn't think it was so funny. Her lip was curled indignantly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Something told me she wasn't angry with Will per say, just you know, _my_ lying ass. This is what happens when you avoid conversations with your twin for three months.

"Nothing, Jane. Will just drove me."

"Yeah, I _got_ that," she said impatiently. "But um, can you clarify how you left with the _Gardiners_ and came back with Will Darcy of all people?"

I winced at her, "Spark Notes' version?"

"No," Jane narrowed her eyes. "_Full text version_."

I sucked in a breath. "We drove through the Carolinas, _I _heckled Benny into visiting Georgy up near Ashcroft, the Gardiners went off to Myrtle, _I_ stuck around with the Darcys. _You_ called, and Will refused to let me _not_ let him _drive_ me." I frowned, drumming a finger against my mouth. "That's ...pretty much it. If you got that. Because my wording is a little shitty."

Jane was looking upwards, attempting to process information. She repeated several things back and I nodded. She finally scowled, "That was Spark Notes. _Definitely_ Spark Notes."

"Tough shit," I muttered, leaning my head back against the wall. I was suddenly grateful that I had gotten all phone calls out of the way. The Gardiners had been called off the bat.

"Who are you talking about?" Kit asked curiously, craning her neck past her twin's shoulder.

"Nobody," Jane murmured, waving a hand. "Some guy we know. It's not important."

"Was it the one Lizzy was hugging by the elevators?" asked Lydia innocently, and I gasped. She smiled slyly, "You know. Tall. Lanky. Less than clean scruff, but _kind_ of pulls it off from a distance?"

My mouth was hanging open, and Jane thoughtfully pushed a finger under my chin and closed it.

"We see _all_," Kit said ominously, wiggling her fingers at me. She dropped her hands, "Well actually, you just happened to be walking to the waiting room and we were running up from the cafeteria. Rubber noodles didn't agree with Lyddie. She spent half an hour in the bathroom."

"_Kit_," Lydia said hotly.

Marin snorted.

But Jane didn't let that distract her. "What exactly is going on between you and Will Darcy?" she asked me.

"I was _thanking_ him," I mumbled, embarrassed. "He didn't _have_ to drive me, and he spent like, eleven hours on the road just to get me here."

"He wants to get some."

"Lydia, be quiet," Jane said stoutly. "But _why_?"

"I just told you. He wanted to drive me."

"Yes, but," Jane struggled for a reason behind her logic. "But he's Will Darcy."

"_So_?" I said, kind of astonished at how quickly I had jumped to defensive. "Aren't you all for seeing the _good_ in people, Mother Theresa?"

"Not after what he did to Georgy and Wickham," Jane snorted doubtfully. "You _definitely_ convinced me of that man's character."

"Well I was wrong," I murmured, tracing circles on my jeans. I wouldn't look at her, and she knelt a little lower to make eye contact, her brows knit together in confusion.

"Lizzy?" she asked tentatively. "What's going on?"

"_Nothing_."

"Oh come on, Lizzy," Lydia whined, leaning her elbows against her knees. "This has been one of the more miserable days of our lives. Give us a reason to gossip."

"You're making a big deal out of it," I said, shrugging. "He just dropped me off."

"So you're friends?" Kit asked.

"Wait a minute," Marin finally spoke up, her eyes narrowed at me. "_Darcy_."

"Yeah."

"Like, the jerkoff who trashed your _book_?"

"_What_?" cried Lydia, delighted. "_That _guy? Dude."

"Oh, for the love of God," I muttered, sitting straight up. "Our father is in the middle of a life threatening _surgery_, and _this _is all you can talk about?"

"In our defense, Dad's all we've been obsessing about for the last few hours," Kit muttered under her breath. "What good is obsessing going to do when all we can do is _wait_? _This _is our way of handling trauma, Lizzy. You don't think I'm scared? Of course I am. We'd just like to think about something _else _for three minutes, thanks very much. _You _weren't there when Dad collapsed. You found out about it all much later than we did, and you weren't even in _state_. So please don't spin this off like we don't care."

Jane and I looked up at her, vaguely astonished.

"Don't give her that look," Lydia frowned, slinging an arm around her sister's shoulder. "Katharine Bennet has her moments."

I sighed and looked ahead, trying to avoid my sisters' eyes. I understood them, really I did. Waiting gets a little easier when you have something else to occupy your mind. It just wasn't what_ I_ wanted to occupy my mind. This whole ordeal with Will Darcy, hell, it was just _confusing _at best. It didn't help that I kind of still smelled him on the sleeve of my shirt. Creepy, right?

No, not really. It was probably from hugging him. And he had this really subtle, woodsy, clean scent. I liked it. I didn't realize I had my sleeve pressed to my face until Lyddie gave me a look that was all raised eyebrows, and I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat, scowling at the wall in front of me. _What the hell is wrong with you? Father, operating table. Health crisis. Possible life threatening situation. And _who _are you thinking about? Will fucking Darcy_.

_Yes, but Will fucking Darcy got me to U of Penn to _begin _with, didn't he?__  
_

_You would have made it by bus._

_You're such an ungrateful little bitch; it would have taken so much longer._

_Don't call me a bitch. This is like a new level of self loathing._

_I didn't even know that I didn't like myself._

_Well, you learn something new.  
_

"Lizzy, are you okay?" Jane asked, looking up from her magazine.

"No," I mumbled, pressing my hands against my eyes, "I'm a bottle of crazy sauce."

* * *

Recovery is an interesting process. If you're in a hospital, well it's some damn good news. So when Mom burst into the waiting room with tears streaming down her cheeks, she had accidentally dragged the nurse practitioner with her _and _one of the residents. The funny thing was that they didn't really look fazed by the maelstrom that is Faith Bennet, which probably means that they've been taken hostage in waiting rooms by various other enthused family members of patients before. Good sports. Mom may have attempted her own variation of the "End Zone Dance" and failed miserably, but we had to give her slack.

This happened a week before. Yes, there was a lot of hysterical sobbing involved, and much more twitching than previously warranted. Mom spent three nights at the hospital by Dad's side. That Saturday, she had to pull strings at his job and run errands, so I warmed the armchair next to his bed for the day, playing dominoes and Battleship and catering fruit salad and homemade chicken noodle soup and lasagna with green beans, his favorite.

That wasn't to say that the mood had miraculously lifted. I had to blink back several times just when I was looking at him. He was ...Jesus, he was ungodly frail. Deathly white, and his cheeks were sallow, and he looked exhausted and thin. They urged him not to speak much, and you couldn't get him excited, but God bless him, nothing could stop that flicker of a smile from flashing on his face. My father was very grateful. _Very _aware of his stupidity, _very _remorseful for the pain he had caused us, but also very grateful for a second chance.

He had collapsed in our house after a cleaning session to Kit's blaring iTunes. And he's a sick man, really he is, because he got a _huge _kick out of telling me that the song playing at the time was that "Blinded by the Light" cover by Manfred Mann.

"Wow Dad, only you," I muttered, aligning a domino by his abandoned lunch tray. He arched an eyebrow at me and smiled. "Seriously, don't tell me anything more about it. I wish I was there, but still, it's a little bit fucked up."

"Elizabeth."

"_Messed _up. Sorry."

He took my hand across the bed and squeezed it, and I looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, "I'm sorry."

"What?" I asked softly. "Dad, come on."

"I'm so sorry."

I looked at him and then had to look away, dabbing at my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I laughed, "God, I thought I had stopped the weepy phase, but there it goes again. Dad, I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Fair enough," he murmured, craning his neck. I noticed that he looked uncomfortable, so I adjusted his pillow for him, and he patted my hand in thanks. When I sat down again, he smiled, "My Lizzy's such a strong girl."

I shook my head and looked up at the dangling IV chords, the steadily beeping monitor. "No," I muttered, folding my arms. "No, your Lizzy's a bit of weakling. A dumbass, actually."

"Hey," Dad warned quietly. "That's my girl you're talking about."

I smiled, shifting a domino. "Hey, is there a four? I saw it a second ago."

"Right next to the seven."

"Oh yeah," I murmured.

"I'm glad your mother was finally able to leave," Dad sighed, settling a hand on his chest. "This environment is very conducive to her hysteria. Maybe you may have noticed." When I agreed, he sighed gloomily, "I hate hospitals. I really, _really _hate hospitals, Lizbear. I have these fine surgeons to thank for the fact that I'm still breathing, but still, I've always stayed away. Actually, St. Mary's was tenfold worse."

"Yeah, I was surprised when I heard you had been transferred."

"Your mother's doing," Dad said fondly. "I didn't even know that we _knew _any cardiologists. Especially at U of Penn, of all places. Your mother told me he pulled some kind of favor. He was at a convention in Pittsburgh; wheeled around straight for me."

"How come?" I asked, curious.

Dad looked puzzled, "I can't remember what your mother told me."

I shook my head. "Don't stress yourself; I'll heckle her later."

"Go easy on her," Dad said softly. "She's a trooper, and I love her very much."

"That's always nice to hear," I replied, smiling.

Dad grinned and laid his head back down, his eyes sliding closed. It was clear that he wanted some rest. I took his tray and pressed a kiss against his cheek, drawing up the covers around his waist until he teased me about it and called me 'Nursey' in a way that was nothing short of patronizing. Then I left his room and promised to be back in twenty minutes from the cafeteria, because I had forgotten to eat anything the entire day.

* * *

Early April in _any _intercity airport was, quite frankly, the seventh circle of hell. It was the end of that sweet, caramel filled week called "Spring Break", the mother of all shitfits for any over protective parent. As a result, the terminals were jammed with uniformed high school kids and gaggles of teens and college students very apt on staying true to the _What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas_ marketing catchphrase. Thankfully for Fitzwilliam Darcy, he had agreed to meet one very pissy Brit out_side_ of the terminal. Besides, it was lovely outside, with only one quarter the noise level.

So when he spied a shaggy redhead fitfully tugging on suitcases, he slid out of his car and helped him stow away the luggage in the trunk, being extremely cautious not to brush hands or hold eye contact, or even _suggest _a fist bump. That is, if he still wanted to hold onto the ability to procreate. Darcy cleared his throat awkwardly and tugged on his collar, and Charles Bingley II _finally _made an effort to look at him for the first time in the ten minutes they had been reunited.

"Hey Charlie."

"Hi Will," Charlie said amiably.

_Wham!_

A fist connected with a jaw, and Will Darcy began to think that it was his _car _that was responsible for the bout of bad luck with physical violence. Because he had gotten slapped in front of it only four months ago.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey-ey-ey, transition chapter. Short and (kind of) bittersweet, and engineered to stave you over. Honestly, March is kicking my butt. But yeah, next chapter is going to be a biggie. I can promise you that. And come on, Charlie's back! Love him to bits.


	24. Knocking Me Sideways

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Four: _Knocking Me Sideways_)

Will Darcy was pretty sure he had whiplash, but thankfully his former best mate was willing to drive. Of course, he wasn't exactly sure _how_ they were going to get across the Walt Whitman with his SUV in one piece; Charlie seemed manically eager to dent the Lincoln.

"Do me a favor," Charlie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. "I want you to imagine the biggest mistake in history. Just picture it, okay?"

"Charlie."

"_Do it_."

"Do you _have_ to be such an asshole?"

"Hey," Charlie lifted a finger. "Our agreement still stands. _You_ dicked me over by ruining my relationship and _I _still have three more minutes of shitting on you."

"But it's been two _hours_." A scowl, and then a sigh. "Goddamn it, fine. I'm picturing it."

"Wonderful," Charlie grinned. "Hit me, what's the biggest mistake in history?"

"I'm between those guys on the _Titanic_ being all 'Meh' about the iceberg and --"

"No."

"Okay _that_, or Hitler's father forgetting to wear a cond--"

"_Wrong_."

"I guess he could have pulled out--"

"Stop," Charlie winced. "I was going to say _you_, but now I'm so disgusted that my insult isn't even _meaningful_ anymore."

"Charlie," Will said thoughtfully. "I have to be honest. You've called me a motherfucker, an asswipe, a shithead and (questionably enough) a _whore_, all in the last forty five minutes. This was _after_ you punched me in the face. The only thing meaningful about this ass kicking was the fact that I _let_ you kick my ass."

"You think you don't deserve it?" Charlie said bitterly. "Jesus Christ, Will. I still _love_ her. I really do. I don't even know why I'm back in the city. There's no way that somebody as lovely, as _wonderful_ as she is would actually still be available," he sighed miserably. "And even if she is, the chances of her even _looking_ at me after the way I behaved are hopelessly slim."

"You don't know that," Darcy argued back.

"Oh, please," Charlie muttered, clearly upset.

Will sighed, "Are you going to forgive me at some point? You could have _chosen_ not to listen to me."

Charlie shot him a death glare, his bright eyes narrowing. Will apologized. It was an underhanded attack. He and Carolyn had practically cornered Charlie into making this decision, carping on Jane for weeks.

"You're a prick," Charlie snapped. "You don't even understand what the last few months have been like for me. You have no idea."

"I'm just saying," Will mumbled, resting his hands in his lap. "I don't know how many times it's supposed to take me to let you know how sorry I am. I've been tortured enough for it. And you weren't even here when Lizzy Bennet slapped me across the face."

_Now_ Charlie was all ears, eyes wide, "Sorry?"

He sighed, sensing a needed explanation. "She found out about my interference with you and Jane. Screamed at me. Slapped me. Humiliated me."

Charlie paused in thought. "I love this girl."

"Hey, me too," Darcy muttered under his breath.

Again, inhumanly wide eyes. "_What?_"

Will rubbed his face, sighing, "Forget it. I'm so damn exhausted. And Jesus, Charlie, _stay in the lane!_"

"Sorry," he mumbled, red brows knit together in confusion. "Okay, am I imagining things or did you just admit to loving Lizzy Bennet?"

"I was being sarcastic."

"No, you weren't."

"I know," Will slumped in his seat, watching cars pass by.

"Holy fucking shit_,_" Charlie laughed. "Thank God."

Will looked over curiously, trying to gauge this reaction. "Excuse me?"

"Well honestly," he said with a slight grin. "What good is it being in love when you don't even realize you're in love in the first place? I'm glad _you_ actually figured out that you were smitten with her. You don't wear denial too well. Not your color."

"You _knew_?"

"_Everybody_ knew. Except you. I think I started to have my suspicions just before Thanksgiving, and then it was pretty much a lock after that. Maybe it's because I know you too well. I know how tense and awkward you get when you really like somebody. It's kind of funny though, because your version of flirting kind of reminds me of constipation. Or unbearable pain. Like a root canal."

Will Darcy's mouth hung open in shock.

"Did you tell her how you feel?"

"...In a way."

"Damn. You mean in _your_ way," Charlie said. "Was this before she slapped you?"

"Yes. Maybe during. I can't remember."

"Dear Lord. Say no more."

Will smiled crookedly, turning back to the window. "No," he murmured, "I don't think things are quite that hopeless yet. She visited Georgy last month and well, things were nice. _More_ than nice. I mean, I think I have a shot at least," he sighed, slouching. "Whatever. If she doesn't want me, I'm okay with that."

"No, you're not."

"I know. But I'd rather be her friend than not have her in my life at all," he said softly, tracing shapes on the window pane. "I don't think I could handle that."

Charlie watched him and sighed. "Will--"

He looked over suddenly, interrupting him, "By the way, you should know something. It's about Jane's father."

* * *

"What a long winter."

"You have no idea," I murmured, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the garden salad, another half assed addition for dinner. Jane smirked and checked on the roast chicken in the oven, and the scent wafted through the room.

One of the benefits of being back home for the past few weeks was having a fully stocked kitchen. As a result, we usually got tapped for dinner duty, but it wasn't much of an issue. We were enjoying home. We were enjoying Dad's recovering health and old family squabbles and spring just on the periphery. So far, April had just brought on a slew of showers. We would usually dash inside laughing, wringing water out of our hair. Jane made an effort to buy freshly cut tulips from the market two miles away. She took to wearing sundresses. It was cute. Leave it to Jane to bring seasonal bliss up a notch.

An at-home nurse started frequently attending to Dad about three days a week. Sometimes she even took care of cleaning and cooking, thank God. Of course, Dad _despised_ her. He muttered nasty things about the Mother Land and refused to call her anything but "Brumhilda". He was pretty chastised for it.

"For God's sake, Dad. Her name is _Anka_."

"I don't care. She has a thick Eastern accent and a hinting of a unibrow. You can't expect me to _not_ call her Brumhilda. It's like waving a carrot in front of Bugs Bunny."

It was a slow recovery process, but if he invested enough effort to be this rude, you knew something was going on successfully. Mom chirped around like a mother hen, as always, insisting he stay in bed for about 90% of the day until the idleness drove him partially mad. Even so, they started a ritual of taking slow evening walks outside to work in some exercise. Sometimes we would spy them coming back from the living room window. Their arms would be linked as they trailed slowly, Dad murmuring a joke and Mom giggling so much that you suddenly remembered that she actually _had _laugh lines.

Being back home made me feel like a little kid again; I was _so_ ungodly thankful for spring break. Things were peaceful, save for your occasional sister tantrum or Anka storming out from something obnoxious and borderline sexist that Dad might have muttered while she fed him pureed shit. And with Jane, things were looking up. We didn't speak about anything that had happened before Dad's heart attack. It seemed tidied up in the past.

But I was still disappointed, and I couldn't understand why. I felt kind of stupid.

I guess it was because I had expected something more after Darcy left. I had expected him to call that day, and then the week after. When a solid month flew by without a word, I wondered if I had left things badly and torn up and screwed over. I questioned my behavior. I didn't know why I even _gave_ a damn. Honestly. Will had probably forgotten about it.

He had probably forgotten about me.

"Lizzy?" Jane asked one afternoon while we were coming back from shopping. We were unloading groceries from the trunk of our car, and I looked up with surprise to find her watching me intently. "You're so quiet."

"I'm not."

"You are," she took a bag from me. "You get that way, did you know? I'm not used to you being an introvert."

"I'm _not_ an introvert," I grinned. "Come on, Janey."

"You get this look in your eye."

"You're so analytical, Doctor."

"I'm _serious_," she laughed, touching my cheek fleetingly. Jane sighed, "You used to tell me everything. Can't I help?"

"I'm fine," I assured her softly. "I'm fine."

I followed her back inside, to where music was playing faintly from the living room. Marin was ridiculously studious, sacrificing Spring Break to jump ahead with some reading. As a consequence, she had to study with her stereo on. Personal quirk. We didn't mind so much, even though we had to subject to frequent repeats of Regina Spektor. That chick is catchy.

Marin looked up and smiled for an instant, then buried her face back in her book. I snorted, retreating to the kitchen.

"That girl needs to understand what a vacation is," I muttered, unloading a plastic bag full of apples. "I'm worried about her."

"I think she _likes_ studying."

"Jane, don't _scare_ me like that."

She grinned at me, pinching my cheek. "See, I like you like this."

"Like what?"

"Like _yourself_."

"When am I not myself?"

"Lately?" She considered, drumming her fingernails on the counter. "Often. I don't know, maybe you got the winter blues two months too late." Jane brightened, gasping. "Oh! We should so get you out one of these days. We'll cut your hair. Buy new clothes."

"What for?" I snorted, opening the pantry doors. "There's nobody here to impress."

"It would be for _you_, Lizzy," Jane insisted. "Girls don't really improve themselves for guys, let's face it. We use it as a pick-me-up."

I considered this. "Yeah, you're kind of right. And here I was secretly smug about my hair reaching my rib cage for the first time in two years."

"It's pretty," Jane smiled, raking her fingers through it. "I like that you wear it down now."

"Okay," I laughed, turning around. "I officially feel like I'm ten again. We're at our parents house, and we're helping with dinner, and people are giggling, and you're playing with my hair. I feel like like we should be eating raw cookie dough in our PJs now."

"Would _Hey Arnold!_ be on in the background?"

"Hell yeah, _Hey Arnold!_ would be on in the background."

"Bitching."

"Jane, you don't _say_ 'bitching'."

"I know, but the heart wants what the heart wants."

I started cracking up when Mom entered the room with a laundry basket, the cordless phone sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder. She was smiling widely and laughing, and we caught snippets like, "Oh thank you, Doctor. Of _course_. Well, I'm sure you'd have to ask _John_ about that. God _knows_ the man is stubborn." It took her about three more minutes before she could cut her conversation short, and by then, Jane had already set tea out, because she secretly wants to be a housewife. Or a Geisha.

"Doctor made a house call?" I couldn't help but ask, laughing obnoxiously. Jane snorted, and I apologized, "I'm sorry. I know it's terrible. I couldn't help myself. Maybe you should give me a corny pun quota to fulfill each day."

"I'll consult the rest of the tribe," Mom mumbled, smirking. "No, Dr. Shaw just wanted to confirm an appointment. He took a liking to your father. Well, _everybody_ takes a liking to your father. Then we wonder where his ego comes from."

"Not Anka," said Jane dryly. "Not a fan."

"No, _not_ Anka," Mom sighed miserably, passing a hand over her eyes. "That poor woman."

"Back at U of P, though?" asked Jane thoughtfully. "When is it? I'd like to drive Dad."

"Don't bother, honey. It isn't until a week from now," Mom sighed, setting the basket aside. She began folding and assorting, glancing up quickly. "It's not that unpleasant of a visit. It's a wonderful team we've managed to find. Expensive, but you know about the medical bills," she murmured.

I blinked up at her, puzzled. "No, what _about_ the bills?"

"Oh, you know," she sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. "You have to know by now, Lizzy. Of course, he told me not say anything; but it's been practically a month. He's _definitely_ called you."

"Wait, _what_?" Jane laughed, taking a seat at the island. "Mom, you're not making sense."

Mom looked up cautiously, and her eyes grew wide, "_Ser_iously? You don't know."

"Seriously, we don't know," I repeated shrewdly, crossing my arms. "Who's _he_? Who exactly are you talking about?"

"God, what's his name," she murmured, raking her hair back into a short stubby ponytail. "I should _know_ this. I mean, it was _his_ connection to U of P that got us the surgery with Shaw to begin with; all hospital expenses paid and everything. Look at me, I'm a horrible person. I can't even remember his name."

Jane's blue eyes had widened considerably, "Wait. Health insurance didn't cover?"

"_Bypass_? Honey, there's only so much it can cover," Mom sighed, fiddling with her bangs in the way she does when she's normally trying to recall something. She clapped suddenly, a smile widening on her face, "_Darcy!_ That's it. William Darcy. For some reason I was thinking _Dawson_, of all names. I don't even know a Dawson. Well, _Dawson's Creek_, maybe."

The only reigning emotion I had was confusion. Severe, troubled, disturbed confusion. Jane's mouth was hanging open, and the deer in headlights look wasn't really her thing either. I gaped at my mother and cleared my throat, "Will Darcy _called_ you."

"Yep." She looked alarmed then, begging, "Can you just _pretend_ that you knew? He made me promise to keep it a secret. I didn't even realize who he was until later. Darcy, that's the name of your old housemate, right? I knew it sounded familiar for some reason." She continued nonchalantly, taking a seat.

Jane was staring at me, and I struggled to regain some logic. "Mom," I asked desperately, placing my hands on her shoulders. "Are you sure? Are you _sure_ it was Will Darcy?"

"Of course," she smiled. "Nice boy, _I _think. A little chilly over the phone. A little high brow, but who am I to criticize? He practically saved your father. Oh for God's sake, Lizzy, you look like you've just seen a ghost. He really didn't say _anything_ about it?"

"No," I mumbled lamely. "Not a thing."

The doorbell suddenly rang and Mom perked up, craning her neck to see the hall. "_Marin!_" she hollered, with no concern that she was screaming right next to us and threatening to pop our eardrums. "Marin, get the _door_! It's Anka, we have an appointment."

There was a frustrated grunt down the hallway coming from Dad's study, and Mom rolled her eyes and sighed. She kissed my cheek and told me not to worry, happily oblivious, and left the room in a daze of confusion and _what the fuck_ery.

I was vaguely aware of Jane poking me.

"What?" I asked.

"You ...kind of look like you want to throw up."

"Nerves," I blamed. "Oh damn it, that's _Mom's_ excuse. Jane, don't let me turn into Mom. Number one fear."

Jane raised her eyebrows, wincing. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm just as confused."

I smiled a little, turning to her. I didn't even know if I could _begin_ explaining _my_ level of confusion. What was it called when you wanted to punch somebody and yet throw your arms around them in a soul crushing hug at the very same time? It was called _not normal_, that's what it was. And suddenly, I was blinking back tears, and I couldn't remember when I had turned into such a goddamn pussy.

He had been in the fucking _car_ with me, too. Played dumb the whole time. It was _infuriating_.

Will Darcy was a _liar_.

Will Darcy was ...kind of wonderful.

I buried my face in my arms, grumbling, "Dear Lord, I'm confused."

"It's okay, child, I love you," Marin suddenly whispered in my ear. I yelped and almost slid out of my seat, and she started laughing and helped me up. "You're so _fidgety_, Lizzy. And ...holy shit, are you _crying_?"

"You're sniffley," Jane suddenly said, concerned. "Lizzy?"

"I'm just really emotional lately."

"Do you have your period?"

"Uh," I laughed, dabbing at my eyes. "Personal much?"

"Is anything personal in this house?" asked Marin, reaching around the counter for a mug. She poured me a cup and I took a tissue by the television set, feeling silly.

I knew I had to pay him back, and I knew exactly what he would do. He would feel insulted if I even offered. And let's face it, he might very well hate my mother for spilling the secret in the first place. But for God's sake, why hadn't he _told_ me? I searched my mind for reasons. I wondered if he wanted some silent glory or if he was embarrassed, and then I suddenly realized it.

He was just doing something genuinely _good_. He didn't want to do it for attention, he didn't want to do it so that anybody would owe him. He was doing something ridiculously good-hearted, and I didn't remember why I had ever questioned this capability in him. Because despite Jane's judgments, despite every opinion held previously, Will _wasn't_ an asshole.

He was a decent person. A _good_ person, wrapped in layers and layers of this iron like judgment. He could be stupid and dense and arrogant and assuming and ..._I _could be stupid and dense and arrogant and assuming.

And suddenly I couldn't stop myself from smiling. Laughing, even. Irony was _such_ a bitch.

Marin watched me skeptically, "Lizzy, are you on meds?"

"No," I snorted, blowing my nose.

"Would you like to be?"

Jane sighed, tracing circles on the countertop obliviously. "I should call Georgy. We should pay them back."

"He won't let you," I said quietly.

"I don't understand what could have possessed him to do this," she said curiously. "Really, if there's some ulterior motive here, maybe he's found it. And just think, now we have to meet up again. As if it wasn't uncomfortable enough the first time around," she sighed.

I looked up sharply, "Don't say that."

Jane frowned, "Say what?"

"You don't," I paused, "Jane, you don't _know_ him. Don't judge him like that."

"Lizzy, how can _you_ of all people," she laughed, squeezing my hand. I watched her expression change. The smile slipped off her face and she looked at me seriously. In the back of my head, I knew that she wouldn't be carping on Will Darcy in the near future. It was just instinctive. He deserved anything but.

Well, maybe I would tell her about Will's intervention in her relationship on a rainy day. With no loaded ammunition within three miles.

In the meantime, I had more important things to do.

Like get that boy on the fucking phone.

* * *

I didn't get in touch Will Darcy.

It wasn't out of any lack of remembrance (I frigging Sharpie'd a memo on my hand); once I managed to call Georgy, she told me that he wasn't in town anymore. And when she gave me his mobile, he _still_ didn't pick up. Because Will doesn't believe in "raising the bar", he believes in really sucky, low signal wireless networks. Jerk.

Not that I'm bitter or anxious or anything.

So I left it to fate. I sat down three nights later, and said, "Fate, if I'm meant to get in touch with Will Darcy, I will get in touch with Will Darcy somehow. If I'm not, then I'm won't. Clear and simple."

Of course, I busied myself with house chores in the next couple of weeks. I stopped attempting calls because I felt like a bit of a stalkerish loser. I left a message with Georgy. And life went on.

When we returned back to Hertfordshire at the end of the week, I was pretty close to giving up. I felt like an idiot. He hadn't even called me back, even at the staggering length of three voicemails and a message from his sister.

I started to reassess _everything_. Maybe I should have called him sooner. Maybe I should have been more sincere in thanking him, or acknowledged his efforts. _Maybe_ I should have been less of a douchebag.

And then I was walking back from a Psych class one warm Thursday morning, and it hit me so hard that I actually had to stop and think in the middle of campus.

Maybe he really didn't care about me anymore.

It made sense, didn't it? I had jerked him around for awhile, and I had expected it not to have consequences. The ship had sailed. God, what if he _hated_ me?

I felt like such a girl. Shit like this wasn't supposed to upset me so much, but it did.

It's amazing how self-doubt can absolutely wreck your self-esteem. Jane and I picked up a pint of Breyer's that evening and watched _Love Actually_ and _Notting Hill_, back to back. Not even shitting you.

"What _is_ it with Hugh Grant and romantic comedies that serves as this omnipotent pick-me-up?" Jane sighed, settling between the cushions with two spoons. "He doesn't even seem all that romantic in real life. I mean, didn't he dump Liz Hurley for a prostitute or something? Does nobody remember that?"

"Divine Brown," I smiled, taking a spoonful. "I watch _way_ too many VH1 countdowns."

Jane sighed, resting her head on my shoulder, her finger curling around a strand of my hair. She had finally convinced me to get it cut a week before, a little past my shoulders with these wispy little side bangs. I actually really liked it, but she wouldn't stop braiding. I swear, she just needs to have a little girl some day just for the braiding and hair playing purposes. Jane's a disaster.

"You're quiet," she yawned into her fist, taking a spoon.

"Long day," I mused, smiling at her. "I think Charlotte wants me to quit. I yelled at a customer today."

"You _didn't_," Jane balked, tilting her head upwards. "_Lizzy!_"

"Jackass made me go through three different orders until he was satisfied," I grumbled, folding my arms. "It wasn't _my_ fault; he just kept changing his mind. That place is sucking out my soul."

"What did you do?"

"I might have spilled a nonfat latte." A delicate pause, "On his crotch."

"Is this why Charlotte called earlier?" Jane narrowed her eyes at me. "You're ...not working there anymore, are you?"

"Nope," I chirped, surprised at how happy I was.

"You loved it there."

"Not really," I murmured, tugging at a thread in the cushion. "I think I _did_. But between the arguments with Charlotte and the Wickham fiasco, there's just too much crap clouding that place for me. I want to start new."

Jane lowered her eyes and nodded. I had finally caved and told her about Wickham and Darcy. And Georgy. She had spoken on the phone with her the day before for two hours. And it was incredible how much we missed her then. We missed her so much it ached.

I sighed and got up towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please," Jane yawned, stretching like some sleepy cat. She got up and stood by the countertop. I grinned at her. Her blonde hair was pulled back loosely, strands framing her face. She was barefoot and in jeans for once, hugging a fleece zip-up.

Jane cradled her mug and looked up at me sleepily, taking a seat in front of our fishbowl. She gasped softly, tapping a finger on the glass, "Oh no."

"What?" I looked up, glancing at the fish bowl. "Damn it."

"Ben Affleck."

"He finally made _Gigli_."

Jane winced, flailing her hands, "Oh, scoop him out already, I can't see that. I hate when they're all turned over like that."

I scooped out the dead little goldfish and put him on a square of paper towel.

"Jane, maybe we shouldn't get fish anymore."

"Oh, Lizzy, _look_ at him, poor little thing."

"I'm serious. I want a dog."

The intercom buzzed and Jane sighed, sliding off of her chair miserably.

"Fish were so easy too!" she called, pressing the button and unlatching the door. "Maybe _too_ easy though, since you know, ours are _dead_. Toilet flush, Lizzy."

"I'm on it; who are you opening the door for?"

Jane paused, wide eyed. "Shit, I don't know. Who did I just buzz up? Wow, that's stupid."

"Fish grief."

"_Definitely_ fish grief," Jane rolled her eyes. "It's probably Mrs. Hill. She buzzed up at 1 AM last Tuesday, did I tell you? Had no sugar for her coffee. 1 AM. Ridiculous."

"You told me," I smiled, wiping up the mess.

Jane flashed me a smile over her shoulder and opened the door. There was no audible sound for thirty solid seconds, so I finally looked over, and nearly everything dropped out of my hands.

Will Darcy was standing in my doorway, speaking to a dumbfounded Jane. And I heard, very quickly, very quietly, "Please don't hate me for this. It's the only way you were going to open this door."

"_What?_" Jane gawked.

And suddenly, Charlie Bingley, tired and skinny and wide eyed, showed up behind the hall and slid inside the apartment before Jane had a chance to slam the door in his face. She jumped back with a yelp, and I wasn't really conscious of much at first.

One minute Jane was shouting and Charlie was apologizing desperately, and the next he was attempting to embrace her and she was beating her fists against his chest weakly. God, he looked so broken up, and I just stood there, gawking in disbelief.

Jane had her hands pressed against her mouth. She said very quietly, "Get out. _Out_."

"Jane," Charlie begged. "Jane, please, I came all this way to see you. I've been a moron. An absolute _idiot_. Just let me talk to you about it."

"It's been_ five months!_"

"I know!"

"Five _months_."

"I know," he repeated miserably. Charlie took a step forward and she took a step back, and I noticed that her eyes were glassy. "Please," he murmured. "I love you."

"You're _lying_."

"You know I'm not."

Of course she knew he wasn't.

Jane's shoulders fell and she stared at him coldly, her eyes watering. She opened her mouth and closed it, and it wasn't very clear who had rushed into who. But then her arms were around his neck and he held her tightly, like he feared she might break.

"You're an _asshole_," she cried.

"I know. Believe me, I know," Charlie said, pressing urgent kisses all over her face. "I'm sorry. I'm so _sorry_."

I felt somebody tugging on my wrist, and I glanced up blankly to find that I was already half way out of the apartment. Will had somehow gotten me to follow him blindly, and I was mumbling really shitty protests.

"No wait, _Jane_--"

"She's a big girl, Lizzy," Will insisted, "Come on. He didn't come all this way for an awkward second party to witness."

"I don't want to go," I mumbled, a little disoriented. "Charlie's here, and everything's a mess, and I left Ben Affleck on the _counter_, Will." I made an attempt to move into the kitchen, but he held me back. Honestly, it was just bad pet etiquette.

"Lizzy, you can take care of that later," a pause. "Wait, _what_?"

"My fish, not the actor."

Will looked at me thoughtfully, "Why is your fish on the counter?"

"--Jane, I promise never, ever, _ever_--"

"Because he's dead," I answered, starting to realize that I was getting closer to the doorway and he was asking me questions just as a distraction. It was working. Even though I knew what was happening, it was still working. And Will looked really good with five o'clock shadow. Smelled good too.

"You're trying to distract me, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Will smiled crookedly, taking my hand. "Let's go."

"Okay," I said meekly, following him out.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Long chapter in two days! I guess this just means I love you. Or that this story is kind of like a tapeworm I've willingly accepted. Ho hum. I don't mind; I love it too much. Oh! Head's up. Story's end might be looming ahead in say, two, three chapters. It's hard to say. Much love.

_Edit_ (3.17.09): Please forgive the typos. I've had everything ironed out. I finished this pretty late last night and YouTube was distracting me. Mostly Bo Burnham, but I felt like watching Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle just after he dives into the lake (BBC miniseries, obv). And I know it's nothing that significant, but good God, that scene is embarrassing in a really giggly way. Awkwardsauce.


	25. Out of the Frying Pan

**Author's Note:** Apologizing in advance, this will probably be the only update from me throughout the rest of March and (most likely) most of April. I'm leaving to England very soon and everything after that will definitely be kicked into overdrive in my life. But I hope this staves you over! I had a bunch of fun writing this. :) We probably have about two major chapters to go, one of which will be the Epilogue. Oh! Credit to HBO and Michael Patrick King for the filched _Sex and the City_ chapter title. I couldn't resist.

* * *

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Five: _Out of the Frying Pan_)

"Who is that?" Will asked, following Lizzy out. She turned out tentatively on the stoop, looking upward in thought. There was a tinkering of a Jazz melody sifting off into the distance, interrupted by a woman's smoky voice. Lizzy smiled slowly.

"Nina Simone," she said, taking a seat at the top step. "Kris, two houses down? She plays Nina Simone in the evenings. Sometimes Billie Holiday, but this happens to be Nina Simone."

"That's so," he struggled for a word, leaning against one of the posts as she stared up at him. "Retro, I guess. Like you know all of your neighbors' names and mannerisms. It's like _Cheers_, but not in a bar."

"No," Lizzy laughed, fiddling with her hair absently. "Actually, most of my neighbors are douchebags. I know two. Kris, one house over, and Mrs. Hill. She's a little senile, so Jane ropes me into helping her with groceries when she can't remember when she bought groceries."

Will laughed.

"Yeah," Lizzy cleared her throat. "She actually woke us up at one in the morning a couple of weeks ago to ask for sugar for her coffee. And I guess there _is_ a necessity for sugar in coffee, but who beyond working professionals and students really requires caffeine at midnight?" She laughed. "I mean, she has to be in her mid seventies at least. I wonder if she has kids."

Will looked at her strangely, unable to contain a smirk. She was being extremely chatty. Self-consciously so. And she must have realized it because she looked up at him, tinged red, and looked to the side where a lamplight was flickering at the corner of the block.

Lizzy looked different. Grinning and challenging and bright eyed and hopelessly pretty as always. But something was different about her. He couldn't really put his finger on it. She had taken up an especially recent habit called _blushing_ lately, maybe that was it. He watched as her hair whipped against her face in the wind, and she hugged her arms to herself. She was inching away a little. And it suddenly struck him how uncomfortable he was making her.

Will cleared his throat, "I know this was really unexpected. Sorry for catching you off guard."

"Yeah," Lizzy mused. "But you know, anything but spontaneity probably wouldn't have worked. Jane would have never agreed to an arranged meeting."

"She seemed upset."

"She's happy," Lizzy said softly. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Will sighed and took a seat next to her. She looked at him quickly and back, and he asked, "You think Charlie's back in?"

Lizzy made a face, "Honestly? Probably not. Jane needs time, and he has to renew some trust. There's some work ahead of that. And my sister isn't stupid. A little naïve, but she's not stupid."

"But you think they have a chance."

"I think they have a chance," she murmured, pulling a thread from her jacket sleeve absently. "I think it helps that they both love each other very much."

"Yeah. That's usually a good thing," he said meaningfully.

And then she wouldn't look at him. And Will couldn't account for the way his fists clenched and unclenched anxiously. He was nervous.

"Will," Lizzy sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. He sensed more to the address, but she didn't say anything. And as cool headed as he had been since they arrived, he felt rather like a little boy now, wringing his hands together and waiting for some kind of verdict.

God, why couldn't she just _look_ at him?

"I have this theory," Will suddenly said, and she looked up at him warily. "Just hear me out here. I know this may be the wrong thing to say. But I have a feeling that we were able to talk a lot easier when you still hated me."

"Is that your theory?"

"That's my theory," he answered, resting his elbows on his knees. She laughed and shook her head, and he grinned, "So, judging by the suckish quality of the conversation and the number of awkward silences, I'm going to go out on a limb here and maybe guess that you don't hate me anymore?"

"I don't hate you," she agreed.

"Thanks for the elaboration, Lizzy."

"You're welcome, Will."

He muttered something under his breath and she laughed at his frustration. Will straightened, "You're an extremely tough girl to talk to."

"I think you're doing a pretty good job."

"_Lizzy_."

"Why did you pay for my dad's hospital bills?" Lizzy suddenly asked, clear cut and straight forward. Will gaped in surprise, and she continued, "Why didn't you tell me that _you_ were the reason he got transferred to U of P?"

He couldn't gauge the reaction. She was serious and stony faced, and he couldn't decipher any other emotion. So Will sighed and tugged on his collar fitfully, muttering, "Your mother told you, didn't she? I don't know why I expected her not to. No offense to your mother or anything, but she is, after all, a mother. From what I hear, this is typical."

"You're avoiding my question."

"No, I'm avoiding the _answer_," he shook his head, none too pleased.

"I have to pay you back."

"Oh for God's sake, this is why I didn't want to _say_ anything."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow creasing. "_Elaborate_, Will."

"Be_cause_ Lizzy, you have this skewered, feministic outlook on _everything_. You would have never let me do it if I offered. And let's face it, I have connections; if there's an opportunity to put somebody in better hands, why shouldn't I? You were miserable. I couldn't just sit there and watch."

_Oof!_

She was hugging him again. And he didn't mind at all. And through the small cloud of surprise, he was able to register that this was a very nice improvement from a slap in the face. In fact, he wondered if it was going to be a regular occurrence. And then she pulled back, embarrassed at herself.

"I'm sorry, was that like physical Tourette's?" he asked her. "Because it's happening a lot lately. And I want to say it's voluntary, but the look on your face makes me think it's just a spasm."

"It happened _once_ before," Lizzy rolled her eyes, crossing her long legs out in front of her. "Don't milk it, Darcy."

"Your hair smells really nice."

She looked up at him and then looked away, blushing slightly. And then Lizzy shoved him angrily, and he blinked at her, "Um, what was _that_?"

"You didn't tell me. You _lied_. You said Mom called _you_."

"Didn't I _just_ explain my thought process behind that?"

"Still," she muttered, dabbing at her eyes briefly.

"Dear God, you're not crying, are you?"

"Allergies."

"Do you even _have_ allergies?"

"No," she said quickly, standing up.

"Wait a minute," Will laughed. "Where are you going?"

"I want to get back inside," she said. "It's cold out here."

"I'll give you my jacket."

"_Don't_ give me your jacket."

"You want to get away from me," he said slyly, folding his arms across his chest. Lizzy opened her mouth and rubbed the back of her head, sighing with frustration.

"It's difficult to explain, Will. I'm not even sure if this is entirely about you," she sighed, kicking some dirt with the toe of her slipper. "Maybe it's just me. See, you should know, I'm a little fucked up. I'm a pretty fucked up girl."

"No, I know."

Lizzy narrowed her eyes, turned around and hesitated by the doorknob.

"You do realize that they're probably still inside duking it out like World War III, don't you?"

Lizzy pinched the bridge of her nose, "Damn it, that just occurred to me."

"Is it that horrible to spend time with me?"

"Don't make this about _you_," she laughed, her brown eyes meeting his.

"You're really uncomfortable around me, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," Lizzy took a step down, crossing her arms. "Who are you, Kyra Sedgwick? What's with the interrogation? God forbid I walk inside my home, it suddenly means that I'm _uncomfortable_?"

"You're fidgeting."

"_Fine_, I'm uncomfortable," she groaned, running her fingers through her hair. "Goddamn it, Will. It's _awkward_, okay? Everything _about_ you and me is awkward. _Has_ been awkward. If we lived together, we would live at the corner of _Awkward_ Street, in _Awkward_ville, population _two_."

Will paused thoughtfully, "Are you suggesting we live together?"

Lizzy's eyes widened, "_No_. Is that what you got from that?"

"I'm going to pretend that you're not blushing for the seventieth time this evening and throw a suggestion at you."

"_I'm not living with you_."

"Okay, not what I meant," Will raised a finger. "Why don't you just say thank you about your dad and we could go and order takeout or something?"

A pause.

"As friends."

"Friends are good," Lizzy said slowly.

"Friends _are_ good."

"Give me a second, I'll get changed," Lizzy nodded, sprinting up the steps. She paused then and lingered on the highest one, leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against his cheek.

Will stared up at her, shocked.

"Thanks for my dad," Lizzy explained fleetingly, and then she disappeared inside.

He snorted and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, taking a seat at the stoop. God, if this was an evening with her, he would take it. He sighed and leaned back, his head touching something solid. Will turned around. She had forgotten her bag, and at the edge of an open zipper, a sharp corner of her purple notebook jutted out. Lizzy's quotes. Will smiled to himself.

* * *

Carolyn Bingley was in such a state of crisis that not even the latest episode of _Gossip Girl_ and a dry martini could possibly assuage her nerves. It just wasn't her day. Honestly, could life _be_ any worse? Forget starving children in desolate African tribes, _her_ life was a living hell. A lunch date at a hip downtown restaurant had resulted in absolute scandal when she had found arugula in her garden salad after explicitly alerting the wait staff that dietary restrictions for_bade_ her to eat arugula. Then, an afternoon Pilates session with Marcus had turned to worldwide tragedy when she discovered that her $3,645 Hermès Birkin bag was missing from her locker. And _then_, oh boy, the kicker. She had discovered that her dearest brother, Charles Bingley II, was _actually_ flying across seas for that American tart, Jane Bumblefuck Bennet.

And _honestly_, what good was buying your baby brother the latest iPhone when he didn't bother to pick _up_?

Carolyn rolled her eyes and paced her bedroom fitfully, phone sandwhiched between shoulder and ear. If she had known that Charlie had been serious about his plans, she would have attempted to do _more_ than laugh in his face and ask him if he had a cigarette on him. Now she was pissed. "Bloody idiot," she snapped, hurling her Blackberry onto her mattress. "I've tried to set him up with _plenty_ of girls, but _no_. _I can't date _that_ one, Care, she seems too focused on worldly possessions, and I can't be with a woman like that_," she mimicked shrilly. "It's called _class_, for fuck's sake."

She collapsed onto her bed and sighed, wondering if it was worth the energy to lean over, pick up the remote and spend ten minutes searching digital cable for something suitable to watch on television. Just as she propped herself up on an elbow, Carolyn caught sight of her phone again and paused. A slow smile spread on her face. "Of course," she murmured. "He _would_ know." A quick snatch, a rifling through a contact list, and then the steady, monotonous ringing.

"_Hello?_" Will Darcy's voice was easily recognizable. All deep tones and slight edge at being interrupted. Carolyn cranked up the charm.

"Will dear, it's Carolyn Bingley. I _do_ hope I'm not interrupting you."

"_You are; I'm having dinner_," he said without much warmth. "_And isn't it midnight in London?_"

"One in the morning, actually," she counted on her fingers. "And for God's sake Will, dinner so late in the evening?"

A sigh, "_What do you want, Carolyn?_"

"I was wondering if you've heard from Charlie. I can't get in touch with him at all."

"_I haven't seen him_."

"Oh, come on, Will," Carolyn let out a tinny laugh. "I'm not stupid. You expect me to believe you're not in Philadelphia right now?"

"_No, actually, I expect you to hang up. Sometime soon would be nice_."

"Temper, Will," Carolyn teased a little too insistingly.

She suddenly caught light, girlish laughter from the other end of the phone, and then Will was speaking distantly: "_Lizzy, give me that!_" A laugh, "_You should have ordered it when you had the chance_."

The smile slid off of her face and collected in a puddle. "You're with Lizzy Bennet."

"_I'm having dinner._"

"With Elizabeth Bennet."

"_Carolyn, are we finished?_"

Carolyn drummed her fingernails on her bedside table, and felt rather like grinding metal. "Tell me, apart from the _cloud_ of mediocrity and average looks, do you think she would win over your aunt? Maybe it wouldn't mean much to you, but _I've_ personally met Mrs. de Bourgh and she has outlined what a particular lady in your life would need to possess in order to be considered--"

"_Lizzy, for God's sake, stop calling our waiter Billy Bob; he looks nothing like the actor._"

"Darcy!"

"_What? Oh_," Will sighed. "_Carolyn, I have to go. Thanks for calling. Actually, I don't remember giving you my number. Either way. Bye_."

Click.

Carolyn squeaked, outraged.

_Son of a bitch_.

One in the morning or not, she resolved to do something about this. And after fifteen minutes devoted to calling receptionist and personal assistant after personal assistant, Carolyn Bingley was finally able to locate the number of a particular Ritz Carlton hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and leave one sugary, message full o' fun with the concierge to deliver to a vacationing, SPF slathered Catherine de Bourgh.

* * *

"Red Robin had better fries the last time I went," Lizzy said pleasantly, walking along the stone steps outside that paved the landscaping as Will watched her nervously. She noticed his apprehension, and extended her arms out like a plane, teetering at the edge. "I won't fall, don't worry. I have a pretty beastly sense of balance. And it's not like this plastic Kiddie cup is filled with a Strawberry Daiquiri instead of a Diet Coke."

"I have a height issue, remember," Darcy sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Ferris wheels?"

"Oh yeah," she murmured, sipping from her straw. She jumped off the rock and to her feet. "That's hardly a ferris wheel. That's probably two feet off of the ground."

"I thought you weren't supposed to tease me about that."

"But you're such an open target," Lizzy insisted, a smile playing on her lips.

Will grinned. Dinner had been a _very_ good idea. They weren't _completely_ out of "Awkwardville, population _two_" yet, but she seemed more at ease with herself and with him. And really, this was all he could ask for. Well actually, this wasn't true. But what he truly wanted was probably something she couldn't easily give him. He had told himself to be ecstatic at the hopes of an extremely uncomfortable, borderline bitter friendship. It had its perks as well.

"So why did Carolyn Bingley call?" Lizzy asked as they walked to the parking lot. "Have you taken a lover?"

"Do you seriously _want_ me to upchuck my dinner? Because it won't be pretty." Lizzy laughed and chewed on her straw, and Will slumped his shoulders, "God knows. She wants to keep tabs on Charlie. Probably furious about Jane, but really, who _cares_?"

"Can you just imagine her coming here to stalk her brother?" Lizzy snorted. "You'd see her get off the terminal with an army of designer label skanks. Armed with Chanel No. 5."

"Her version of Mace?"

"Oh, definitely."

Will smiled and turned to look at her. Lizzy was taking extra care to walk inside the lines of each parking space, toe to heel almost, and sipping her drink absently. He suddenly had the urge to take her hand and see how she would react, but at the last moment, he decided not to. Why ruin a perfectly good moment with potential violence? From her, of course.

But still, she was troubled. Her brown eyes met his thoughtfully, and she stopped in the middle of her tracks.

"What is it?"

"_Carolyn_ was able to call you," she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Will folded his arms across his chest and asked her to elaborate. At that, Lizzy rolled her eyes and took the straw from her mouth, "Well _gosh_, there's a reason I've waited this long to thank you about my father. You're a remarkably difficult man to get in touch with, Mr. Darcy. I even left word with Georgy, and no dice. So, I guess it's official. You've been screening my calls."

Will looked at her seriously, "You tried to _call_ me?"

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking," he laughed. "First of all, don't ever leave messages with Georgy. Her memory is something atrocious. Secondly, I actually haven't had a properly working phone since last Friday. Georgy and I were on one of those family plans and we wanted to trade service providers. Some mishap with AT&T. I have my number _now_, if you'd like it."

Lizzy's eyes were still narrow, "A _likely_ story."

"Oh, come on. Why would I screen your calls?"

"I don't know," she murmured, kicking a bit of gravel absently. "I had this overwhelming, life orbiting hunch that you secretly hated me. It would be kind of fitting."

Will stared at Lizzy as she fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. It wasn't until he got close that she looked up at him. And even then, it was mostly with shell shocked surprise, because at the next moment, he brushed a hand across her cheek (decided "_Fuck it_") and kissed her six feet away from the Lincoln.

He felt Lizzy tense against him like before, but it was (thank God) quite different the second time around. It was different in the sense that, once the shock dissipated, she happened to kiss him _back_, so softly that he wasn't quite aware of anything else at the moment. Will cradled her face with his hand and the other tangled itself in her hair, her hands linked around his neck. And suddenly Lizzy was pressed against the Lincoln and she wasn't quite able to decipher through the haze of thought just _how_ they had managed to stagger this far.

"You know," Darcy murmured, pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "I can't help but notice that you're not pushing me away. Maybe _you're_ possessed this time around, but you actually are kissing me back." Lizzy pulled away jadedly and cleared her throat, straightening the collar of her blouse.

"_Was_," she corrected, turning around towards the car so that he wouldn't see her face. "_Was_ kissing you back. Past tense."

"_Lizzy_."

"It's the Daiquiri. I can't think for myself."

"You had a Diet Coke."

"That's what _you_ think," Lizzy insisted. He watched her shoulders slump with a deep, agitated sigh. And then she turned around to face him, a blush warming her face: "I thought you said we were going to be _friends!_ You know, awkward, bitter, emotionally constipated friends. It's a notch up. Good territory."

"Awkward, bitter, emotionally constipated friends who occasionally kiss."

She shoved him and he started laughing. "That's not funny!"

"Okay, fine. We'll just forget it ever happened."

"_Fine_. Sounds good," Lizzy agreed stoutly, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. There was a lengthy pause and Will shoved his hands into his pockets, his jaw tense and his back pin straight. She looked at him from the corner of her eye.

And then Darcy threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, "For God's _sake_, Lizzy."

"_Fine_."

And then she grabbed a fistful of his collar and pulled him into a kiss. And he had no objections really (except for the butterflies in his stomach that _might_ be potentially ulcer inducing). That is until she started giggling against his mouth, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all, "I can't believe I just _grabbed_ you. Honestly, it's a little domestically violent, don't you think? Who _does_ that? I think only Humphrey Bogart can do that. Or Clark Gable. I'm pretty sure I meant Clark Gable."

"Are you trying to suspend the kissing until you're 100% sure of how you feel about me?"

Lizzy looked up at him guiltily, "Yes."

"I'll drive you home."

"Okay."

He pulled away and unlocked the SUV. Lizzy walked to the other side, attempting to slough off the pulsating, light headed feeling that had come over her. She buckled up and he closed the door after himself, gunning the ignition. Some Diana Ross song was playing from the FM Radio and they both sat in silence for a moment or two. Suddenly, Will pressed a quick kiss to her mouth and then turned back, shifting the gear into drive.

"Sorry," he apologized, and Lizzy laughed, grinning.

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am an ex_tremely_ shitty sleeper.

Made even more complicated by the fact that the evening was nothing close to boredom. The stint with Charlie was one thing. When I arrived home, you had your standard, tatty pile of Kleenexes and (to my mild surprise) a broken vase. It wasn't that big of a deal, really. The vase was from the Phillips and, let's face it, nobody likes the Phillips. Even _Mom_ probably doesn't like the Phillips.

Charlie was asleep on the couch and Jane was steeping Earl Gray in a teapot by the kitchen counter. I wanted nothing more than to slink off into my bedroom and collapse under the sheets and barricade myself against any thoughts of Will Darcy _or_ his mouth. But Jane is Kyra Sedgwick. The interrogator.

"Lizzy?" Jane called softly, and I noticed her voice was coarse and raw. The way it gets when you've invested a lot of energy or possibly spent the entire evening arguing over why your adorable, absolutely wonderful English boyfriend happened to leave you high and dry five months ago. "Where have you _been_?"

"Oh, you know," I murmured, drumming my fingers against the countertop. "Out and about. What happened with you and Charlie? I wanted to stay, but Will wouldn't let me."

Jane sighed and tucked a blonde tendril behind her ear, stirring her cup absently. "I forgave him. But Lizzy, I'm not sure if I can take him back yet."

"Janey," I soothed, rubbing her shoulder. "That's okay. You don't have to figure everything out all at once."

"I love him," she said quietly, looking over her shoulder. "He loves me."

"When did he fall asleep?"

"Sometime between a third argument and a kiss."

"I hope the kiss came after."

"It did," she smiled, a blush coloring her cheeks. "I _do_ love him. And Lizzy, he told me everything." Jane looked at me seriously then, those blue gray eyes ever soul searching. "And I want to talk to you about it, but you look exhausted. Why don't you go off to bed?"

"Sensational idea," I yawned against my fist. I kissed her on the cheek and bent down to take off my shoes, kicking them by the foyer. Jane turned to me then, "Oh, where did Will go?"

I paused, "Hotel nearby."

"You should have invited him in."

"_No_," I said urgently, and Jane cocked her head. "I mean," I straightened, "he already has a room downtown. It's not that big of a deal. He's been in Philly for a few days now." Jane raised an eyebrow but nodded nonetheless, disappearing back into the kitchen.

I sighed and slumped against the wall, pressing my hands against my eyes. _God, why did I let him kiss me? Now he has the wrong idea. Now things are going to be so supremely fucked up because I am the motherload of fuck-ups personified_.

_Well, why did you kiss him back?_

_Because I wanted to._

_Why did you want to?_

_He's really a superb kisser._

_Bull to the Shit, Lizzy "the liar" Bennet. Think of a better reason.  
_

_I just _wanted_ to. I couldn't help myself. What is this, am I officially _schizo_ now?_

_I think you love him._

I slumped against the wall and rested my head between my hands.

"So, I'm in love with Will Darcy."


	26. Birds Flying High, You Know How I Feel

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Six: _Birds Flying High, You Know How I Feel_)

"She looks dead."

"Poke her."

"I'm not going to _poke _her. _You _poke her."

"What, me? She's _your _sister. Does she normally fall asleep with clothes on?"

"Don't judge Lizzy."

"I'm _not_--"

Bickering voices, a guy's and a girl's, dragged me out of sleep. Actually, it wasn't so much as sleeping as losing consciousness. I was still in jeans and a hoodie, 3/4ths of my hair out of its clip, eyeliner smudged and mouth halfway open. I sat up groggily and cringed. Charlie was leaning against the doorframe, stifling laughter. Jane sat at the edge of my mattress.

"Sweetie, you've got a line of drool."

I touched my mouth and winced, "Oh, gross."

Jane arched an eyebrow, watching me. I realized that she was on her way out. She had her hair drawn back in a loose ponytail and she was wearing a cotton dress and a cardigan, her handbag slung over her shoulder. Charlie was holding his car keys.

"You guys going somewhere?"

"Yeah," she cleared her throat timidly, blushing a little. Maybe she was embarrassed. Charlie matched her. The air was far from cleared. "We're just going to grab some lunch together."

"Oh, okay." A pause, and then a squeak. "_Lunch_?"

"Late lunch," Charlie smiled. "It's one thirty, Lizzy."

"What? _No!_ Fuck my life," I started, jumping out of bed. "Why didn't you wake me? I have a class in an hour."

"I'll give you a lift," Charlie added helpfully. "How long do you need to get ready?"

"About a century," I whined, running about. I started to unbutton my blouse, paused, and decided that it might be best to actually look for clothes first. I opened my dresser cabinets.

"Give her fifteen minutes," Jane grinned at Charlie. She got up and kissed my head, "I'll get you tea and toast. Oh, and remember. Mom wants you home for dinner tonight."

"Right, right."

Being a long time fan of the snooze button, I've always been an expert at getting ready in short time intervals. You learn to multitask. Brush your teeth in the shower, use a wet-to-dry straightener for bangs, pull hair back, wolf down toast, pour scalding tea into a Starbucks thermos. Some rules are relaxed. Mismatched socks usually result. Also household accidents.

I tripped over the corner of the coffee table on my way out.

"I'm okay!" I winced, getting up. Jane ran over from the kitchen and helped me, touching a spot on my forehead tenderly.

"Ow, ow, _ow_," I pulled back. "Janey, _stop_. You'd think the first 'ow' would give a hint or something."

"Sit down, I'll get you some ice."

"No time!" I said, sliding into the kitchen. I ripped apart my toast, popping pieces into my mouth. "I swear, I'm not concussed."

Jane sighed and pivoted her hands on her hips. "If you pass out during class--"

"It'll be because of the professor or the material, not a possible concussion," I assured her, grinning. "I zone out anyway. Jankowsky is about as amusing as Ben Stein. It's typical."

_Besides, how the hell am I going to think about Calc when I can't beat Will friggin' Darcy out of my head?_

I cringed a little and turned on my heel toward the kitchen cabinets, searching for an empty thermos. It really sucked. I had gone through ten minutes of uninterrupted thoughts, and then he had to wedge himself in between them again. My mind was a constant battlefield.

_I should call him_.

I unscrewed my thermos and poured water from the kettle in, glancing over my shoulder. Charlie was waiting patiently by the door, talking with Jane. He faltered and touched her shoulder fleetingly, as if waiting for some kind of permission, like some schoolboy chastised for misbehavior. Jane smiled hesitantly and I watched her take his hand. It was subtle but it tugged at heartstrings, and Charlie failed at smothering a grin, his eyes brightening.

I felt the corners of my mouth turning up.

_I should call him_.

God, I wanted nothing more than to sit at home and dig out a blanket from the closet, mulling over it all. It's the sucky thing about life, really. It's like a conveyor belt in constant motion; It doesn't give you time to think and dissect emotions and decide what's best. You just have to get on and trust where it leads you.

I stared at the phone from the corner of my eye, nervous energy jittering through me. I wrung my hands together.

_How in the hell could I be in love with Will Darcy?_

Shoving forth all rational reasoning, I could come up with nothing but reasons _not _to love him. He was smug. He was assuming, and judgmental. He talked out of his ass. He was complicated and moody. Arrogant and prejudiced.

And yet he had brought out nothing but the sharpest reactions from me. What kind of person makes you want to break their nose and simultaneously tackle hug them? I wanted to punch him in the shoulder and kiss him all at once. I wanted to tell him just how grateful I was for all that he had done for my family, and maybe thump him upside the head for not telling me about it in the first place.

If it was love on my part, it was a tugging, consuming, cracked out love based on dichotomies. I grinned into my cup, almost laughing. It fit.

If Will still felt something for me, that is.

Who knows, maybe that kiss was just a result of parking lot mood lighting?

Okay, no it wasn't.

It was inconvenient and really shitty timing to have Will Darcy bombarding my thoughts. It especially sucked because Charlie took the time and effort to drive me through morning traffic to the HU campus, and with such expert timing that I actually arrived three minutes before class even started. Only to get dazed and zone out and think too much.

After forty five minutes, I couldn't handle it anymore.

I collected my bags, raced out of the lecture room and sprinted across campus with full intention to track Will Darcy down. Just as I pulled out my phone to dial Georgy's number (I had _still _forgotten to get his), my phone started ringing in my hand, and I flinched back, yelping.

A group of students forming a study group at the steps of the Wilhern building looked over and I cleared my throat, "Uh. Lack of sleep. Strange reactions. Bye." I took a seat at the farthest step and slid my cell open.

"Hello?"

The voice that answered was clipped and cool, and strangely familiar: "_Elizabeth Bennet?_"

"Speaking." _Wow, I missed Caller ID completely_.

"_This is Catherine de Bourgh. I am in your town. Are you available for early dinner? Three thirty_."

I gaped so long that she actually asked me if I was still on the line. "Oh, uh, yeah. Are you sure it's me you want though? I have Charlotte's number."

"_I'm perfectly sure_," she retorted, borderline snappy.

_God, menopause must be a bitch._

"Uhm, okay. I'll call you. I guess."

"_Good. I'll be expecting it_."

Click.

I stared at my phone. _And first place for most awkward phone conversation goes to…_

My plans were temporarily put on hold. Self deluded royalty was calling.

* * *

Catherine de Bourgh wasn't extremely thrilled at my selection of the Macaroni Grill at Oxford plaza. I personally thought they could do no wrong. You had a lovely Sinatra selection, Create Your Own Pasta, _and _you could draw on the tablecloths. Plus, it was across from a Starbucks and an Ulta. Cool beans.

We sat down in a booth and she sniffed, folding her hands primly in front of her. She was tan, having just come back from vacation, apparently. Something she kept mentioning every five minutes, as if hinting at something I clearly didn't understand.

Our waitress scribbled her name on the tablecloth and asked if she could start us off with something. I opened my mouth, and Catherine's voice rang out, sharp and bell clear:

"I don't suppose you have tea."

"We do, ma'am. What kind would you like?"

"I don't care. Just make sure to include two packets of Splenda."

I raised an eyebrow. _Reer_. "I'll have a coffee please."

"Decaf?"

"Regular."

The waitress smiled and nodded, turning on her heel. Catherine's over plucked eyebrows rose, her lips settling into a grim line, "And you think it's practical to have caffeine so late in the day?"

"Why not? I could use some perkiness. Especially given the direction this conversation's going to be headed in," I said, leaning back in my seat.

"I haven't even raised the issue yet, Elizabeth."

I rolled my eyes, "With all due respect, Mrs de Bourgh, I didn't come here to chat it up. We both don't like each other too much."

"Very well," Catherine cleared her throat, fixing me with a cold stare. "You're a bright girl. _Obviously _you understand why I'm here."

Chyah.

"_Obviously _I don't."

She laughed, even though it wasn't really amusing to either of us. Convenience laughter. Painful.

"Funny. You're pretending to be ignorant about a rumor _you _started. Of course, I was aware of the fact that you had no class, but it seems to me that you're ever sinking, Elizabeth. Playing dumb isn't a good look for you."

"Oh, _ouch_," I laid a hand against my chest. "Right in the heart, what a zinger. Don't worry, I'll get over it." My fist tightened. I wondered if Italian restaurants could blacklist you for right hooking an old woman. Whatever. Maybe the collagen injections would soften the blow.

She narrowed her eyes: "Enough of this. My _nephew_, Elizabeth. The rumor concerns my nephew. It has been revealed through a trusted source that you and William …you and William are _seeing _each other."

I looked up and opened my mouth.

"Of course," Catherine continued, "I know this is impossible. What could he ever see in _you_? _I _was kind enough to give you the benefit of the doubt at Rosings, but it wasn't before long that I was able to write you off. And Will has similar, level headed judgment of character. After all, his mother and I are sisters. It's a family trait."

The waitress dropped off the coffee and the tea, and I stirred my cup quietly, controlling my voice. "That's funny," I said, setting my spoon aside. "Will's sister told me that their mother abandoned them at an early age, moved to California, started a new family and induced her ex-husband's heart attack. _You _must be a real gem too."

Catherine clenched her jaw and leaned in close, "Don't you _dare _talk about my sister like that. I don't condone her behavior, however--"

"Save your breath. Altoids would be nice too."

"_Elizabeth Bennet_--"

"You know what," I mumbled, digging through my purse for a tip. "I don't have to put up with this shit. Enjoy your nonexistent dinner." I got up to leave, and she clamped a hand around my wrist, her blue eyes wide and angry.

"Are you or are you not involved with Will?"

"Why is that your business?"

"I'm practically his _mother_; I reserve a right to know who is in his life and who, preferably, _isn't_." She rose, nostrils flaring, "Answer me."

"If you came all this way, it had to be to _confirm _this so called rumor."

She balked at me, and I watched as worry lines sprouted at the corners of her eyes, "_Are _you confirming it?"

I hesitated and moved my wrist, and her hand fell limply. Dean Martin was playing and our entire wing of the restaurant was empty. And my throat felt dry when all I could do was murmur, "No. I'm not."

Catherine's shoulders relaxed with visible relief. She straightened and regained her composure, collecting her purse. "Obviously I need your word to never become involved with him in the future. I know your type. Men are often _deluded _by the illusion of a supposedly "free spirited girl". They don't immediately fall for the straight-laced, sensible ones. You must _promise _me--"

"Absolutely not."

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

"You're _insane_. Like, certifiably. Psychiatric ward, _Girl Interrupted _insane." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Lady, you have a _severely _skewered sense of what would make your nephews happy."

Catherine laughed, "You actually think _you _could make him happy?"

"You know what? I don't know," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I _do _know that I'm done here. Good night."

I stopped halfway and turned back, and Catherine was staring at me, absolutely livid.

"By the way," I said. "Send my regards back to your 'trusted source'; please tell Carolyn Bingley that she can go fuck herself. Thanks so much." I turned on my heel and started for the door.

* * *

"Any particular reason for stabbing your chicken there, Lizzy?"

"I'm just making sure it's tender."

"If it were any more tender, it would be chicken broth."

I set my fork down and looked at Dad across from the dinner table. He was smirking at me, fingers steepled. Mom was flitting about the kitchen, searching through cabinets for salt. Nobody was really home. Jane had conveniently slipped out of dinner plans (of course, any mention of her reunion with Charlie had Mom singing in a throaty soprano). Lydia was out and Kit had followed. Friday nights will be Friday nights.

It was a pretty crappy Friday night though, not just from my perspective; it had been raining all evening. I could hear torrents of it slashing against the house.

Marin raised her eyebrows at me, "Tough day?"

"You could say that."

"Guy issues?" she asked haphazardly, and I looked up before I could tell myself not to.

"No."

"Lizzy, I didn't know you could blush," Dad teased, his eyes skeptical.

"I'm _not_," I replied hotly.

Marin snickered, "Dare you to stop attacking your dinner."

I couldn't. I was picturing Catherine de Bourgh's face. That meeting had left me with nothing but this overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Oh, and anger. That was pretty palpable.

Mom set a platter of vegetables beside me, tucking a strand of my hair back. "You okay, hon? You look out of it."

"I can't get a word out of her, Faith. Good luck to you," Dad acknowledged.

"Wow, does nobody _else _experience less than perfect days?" I asked. "You want to stop attacking me? It's not a big deal."

"Nobody's attacking you, Lizzy."

"That's not what I meant," I murmured. I shoved away from the table and sighed, leaving my plate by the counter. "Sorry if I'm being really bratty. It's not personal, I swear. Can I go upstairs?"

"You're asking us if you can go upstairs?" Dad asked dryly. "Really?"

I smiled a little, grateful for the jab. "I know my room is Lydia's now. Think she'll mind if I take a nap?"

"I see how it is," Marin said smugly. "Choosing _her _bed over mine. So okay, mine's a full size and hers is a queen, but _I've_ got the tricked out comforter."

"Jeez, fine, Marin. I'll use yours."

"Don't use _mine_, that's my personal space."

Dad snorted and Mom rolled her eyes. Sometimes I didn't miss living home at all. I shook my head and gathered my bags, leaving the room. Upstairs, in my old room, walls plastered with magazine cutouts and crappy, ill-suited posters, I felt really small again. I remembered having bunk beds in this room with Jane, of reaching down off the top bunk for her hand to see if she was sleeping.

Of course, the walls were light green at the time. Lydia favored purple.

I sat on top of the bed and rested my back against the wall, digging through my bag. I pulled out my purple notebook from my tote, creased at the corners. I hadn't looked at it in months and I suddenly felt compelled too. I had tossed it aside since Rosings.

I rifled through the pages and then froze. In the margins were tiny footnotes, scribbled in blue ink in foreign handwriting. Not girly handwriting. _Will's _handwriting. He wrote a key out in the header: a star meant (according to him) that the quote was "pretty beastly" -- this made me snort -- a dot meant "this is too deep for me". And an exclamation point meant, quite blatantly, "damn, I wish I wrote this first". I grinned, pressing my hand against my mouth.

He had starred most of Emerson's. Nixed all the proverbs. He seemed to have a thing for Margaret Atwood, though. Also Woody Allen, which got a star and an exclamation point: "I was nauseous and tingly all over. I was either in love or I had smallpox."

I laughed, shocked, and flipped to the last page. At the bottom, there was a small block of his writing, not very neat, and too loopy. He had written it quickly. I couldn't even remember any time where I had left the notebook out. I leaned in close:

_I wish I had an inspirational quote to pull out of thin air or something, just so you could write it down here. I actually want to feel that special. Ridiculous, right? It's a good collection though, Lizzy. Maybe I should start a collection. My dad used to collect plates from different countries. I can't pull that off. Anyway. Maybe I should have written this in pencil… _

_You're inside changing. I'm scared shitless. I came here to see you. To be with you. I guess I'm writing it off as moral support for Charlie just in case you get freaked out. Because let's face it, you could get freaked out. But just in case you've been doubting it, I gotta say something._

_I love you._

_Just thought I'd let you know_.

_Oh, by the way, it's Will_.

I smiled, took in a breath, let it out. I had my fist pressed against my mouth.

And because life is either extremely dull or extremely bizarre, two minutes passed before Marin hollered for me downstairs and announced that there was some guy asking for me out on our stoop and how she wanted to let him in because it was raining and all, but also voiced her fear on how many rapists and criminals tend to lurk in unassuming suburban neighborhoods as well as urban areas. I hadn't even heard the doorbell.

I shot up and raced downstairs, heart in my throat. Dad was on his way to the door to scope out the commotion but I leaped ahead of him, wrenching the door open, eyes wide.

I know, I know. It would be a severe letdown if it was somebody really insignificant. Man, can you just imagine? What if it was _Collins_, of all people? Or even George Wickham? Or a neighbor? Grim.

Nope. It was Will.

Will who had stupidly boycotted all umbrellas at the moment. His hair was matted down and his jacket collar was up, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was shivering. Will smiled at me hesitantly, almost apologetically. I stared at him, and he opened his mouth, "I hate to be rude but um, Lizzy? Can I come in before I freeze to death?"

Marin lurked at the door skeptically, "Who's this again?"

"God, you're dumb," I muttered, yanking him in by the sleeve. He stomped his shoes on the rug and sniffed. "At least keep a spare umbrella in your trunk before driving the two hours over here from Philly."

"You've worked out that much," Will said, smiling crookedly. He stiffened then, at the realization that he was being watched by three members of my family he had never met before. Mom poked her head out the kitchen doorway and Dad was all wary confusion.

"Oh," I cleared my throat. "Mom, Dad, Marin -- this is Will Darcy. I don't think you've ever met. But um, yeah. He helped with Dad."

There was a high pitched squeal and then a shuffling of feet before Mom clasped Will Darcy's hands and began praising him in a kind of babbling whose frequency can only be heard by dogs. And Will, poor Will, out of sheer mortification, disappeared into the cocoon of monosyllabic answers and pained expressions. Only I understood it a lot more this time around.

Dad seemed humbled. Skeptical, sure, but grateful. He wouldn't stop watching my reaction either. I blushed.

"Please don't thank me," Will muttered, wincing. "Seriously."

"Oh, _Will _-- I can call you Will, right?" Mom chirped, and he flinched when she took hold of his lapels and made him shrug out of his jacket. "You _must _have dinner with us. I hope you like salmon. Oh, you're drenched! Lizzy, get him a towel."

"She doesn't have to do that -- You don't have to -- I'm _fine_--"

"On it," I said, turning for the stairs.

"Actually, go on up with her; she'll show you the blow dryer. I would hate for anybody to get sick under my roof," Mom sighed, sick with worry all of a sudden. "I'll go make some tea. Or do you prefer coffee?"

"I'm fine."

"Coffee, then. Lizzy, go."

"This way," I laughed, taking Will's hand. He followed me, bewildered, up the steps. I led him into the bathroom between Marin's room and the twins' and dug through the closet as he lingered in the doorway. I felt him watching me.

"Here you go," I set a stack of towels at the edge of the sink. "When you're done, you can just, y'know, sling them over the rack. Blow dryer's in this drawer." He stared at me and opened his mouth, and I started, "Here, I'll get it for you."

I snatched it from below the sink and unwound it, plugging it into the wall. "Um."

He cleared his throat and took a towel tentatively, staring at it.

"Sorry," Will muttered, voice deep and disoriented. "I'm kind of out of it, somewhere between the rain and your parents' interrogation. I'm sure they're lovely people though."

"Yeah, that would probably explain why you've forgotten how to use a towel," I smiled, patting the edge of the counter. "Sit here."

And he did.

"Sorry about my parents," I murmured, slinging a towel over his neck. "I know they come on strong. Well, my mom does, anyway. My dad's more like the strong and silent type. Very dry. And Marin you barely met. The twins aren't even home. And you know about Jane, of course."

Will stared at me, his mouth quirked upward in amusement. He knew and _I_ knew that I was babbling. I cleared my throat and looked down, towel drying his hair a little too roughly. He winced and pulled away, "Easy, easy. I can do it. Thanks."

"Good." _Because this is extremely awkward. _

It felt weird to be this close to him. Which was a little ridiculous given the fact that I had kissed him the other night. But still, this was my parents' house. Things were clumsy and strangely intimate. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked down, straightening the shag rug with my foot.

"So," I started. "How'd you track me down?"

"Well, you happen to have this sister who has several important things about you on file. I happened to _call _this sister and get your address. I guess I'm bordering on stalking now."

"It's not stalking if I let you in."

"Yeah, there's that," Will answered sheepishly. He looked up at me, rubbing his head with the towel. I laughed. His hair was ruffled and damp, sticking up at the ends, except for the strands that fell into his eyes.

I brushed them back and took the towel from him. "You look a little ridiculous."

"It's secretly a turn on though, right?"

"Not really," I smiled.

"Figures."

Will watched me intently as I smoothed his hair back, fighting off embarrassment. And then he smirked, astounded, "Look at that, you can't even look at me."

"I'm looking at you," I corrected, miffed.

"You're looking _past _me."

"_Will_--"

"You're not even going to ask me why I'm here, are you?" he asked patiently, folding his hands in his lap. Smug again. Only it was more endearing than irritating this time around. "Too proud, Lizzy? Or is this just embarrassment."

"I'm not _embarrassed_."

"Right. Your cheeks are just naturally bright red."

I laughed and rolled my eyes, placing my palms against my cheeks. "I already know why you're here," I murmured quietly, "so scooch over."

Will shifted over and made room for me, and I hopped up on the counter, legs dangling freely. I looked over at him, and all traces of teasing and humor were gone. His blue eyes were serious, his body angled towards mine with full attention. It was almost criminal how rain could make men look dashing and rugged and transform women into makeup splattered train wrecks. Maybe this is just one of life's small cruelties.

"So," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know that you met with my aunt. She called me this evening. Well actually, she called _Georgy_, who relayed it all back to me." Will looked up, gauging my reaction.

I didn't say anything.

"Lizzy," he murmured, taking my hand. "I'm really sorry. You have no idea. Catherine just represents a side of my family that I'm not proud of. And we can't choose which name we're born into."

"No," I nodded, looking up. "I know that. Believe me. You don't have to apologize; I didn't really think that she was speaking for you."

"I just wish I could do something; I was so angry."

"Like you haven't done enough for my family," I smiled, taking my hand back. "Seriously, Will. I feel like you need a coat of armor now."

This didn't run that well with him. In fact, he looked mildly insulted.

"Lizzy," Will pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "God, you make it sound like …just _stop _that. It's not even that big of a deal, and when you play it up like it is …just _don't_, okay?"

"Okay," I murmured.

"Besides," Will sighed, his hands falling into his lap. "My motives were kind of selfish. I know it directly helped your family, but still; I wanted _you _to be happy. I wanted to be the one to make you happy."

He cupped my chin in his hand and made me look up at him, his knuckles brushing against my cheek, eyes searching my face.

I hopped off of the counter and stood in front where he sat. I still had to look up at him as I spoke, "I, um -- I found my notebook today. You know, the one that you stole for five minutes and wrote a message in."

Will looked surprised; he didn't say anything.

"I might like, cut it out and glue it between a couple of Emerson's quotes. Maybe Twain's."

Will smiled, perfectly aware of what I was avoiding. God, he could look so smug. Was my face beet red again? It had to be. I babbled on:

"Maybe Thoreau. Whatever floats your boat. I have a good Hemingway one, but he killed himself. It's not that chipper. Like _The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber_? It's not _that _happy."

"Lizzy."

"You like Atwood, so maybe--"

"I'm probably going to kiss you now, okay?"

"_Maybe _I could even choose -- Okay."

And then he pulled me close, and I laughed like I knew I would, thinking it all so ridiculous. He apologized, probably because there was nothing else he could do.

"Don't you want to know my response to the message? Or do you want it in written form?" I asked skeptically. "Or do you know it already?"

"Honestly?" Will winced, hands dropping into his lap. "I'm just trying to make the best out of a situation. If you already know that I adore and love you beyond any measure and you're _not _running in the other direction (or you know, slapping me across the face), then it has to be a good day. I'm counting my blessings here."

"I don't know if that's arrogance or plain stupidity."

"What about romantic?"

"It's too stupid to be romantic."

Will winced sharply, laying a hand flat against his chest, "I'm hit. Ouch. _Ouch_." I laughed and he grinned, taking my wrist and yanking me forward. I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face into his shoulder as his hands drew wide, comforting circles against my back.

"This is going to sound kind of corny," Will murmured against my hair. "But I really like holding you. Is that weird? You're so warm."

"I love you."

Will's arms tightened around me and I raised my head so I could look at him, hands laced around his neck. He kissed me softly and murmured, smiling, "Can I get that in writing?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **(Insert Author's Happy Shriek Here) _Dude_. Final chapter, and what a relief. Last thing brewing is an epilogue, and don't worry, it'll be a goodie. A lengthy goodie. All characters missed and all the loose ends tied into one pretty, spiffy bow. That's coming next.

Chapter title is a lyric from Nina Simone's "Feeling Good."

Thank you so much for all the support and sweet words! You guys keep me going strong.


	27. Epilogue

**Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand**

(Chapter Twenty Seven: _Epilogue_)

Waves lapped up on the dark shore, the spray of foam whipping through the night air. We were so close to the water that I couldn't really understand which sounds were really which; when did the melody from the reception behind me stop, and when did the sound of the current begin? Maybe I was just too out of it. I sleepily watched him carve nonsense into the sand with driftwood, absently tracing shapes and faces. Will glanced over his shoulder and smiled at me, mussing my hair a little.

"You look totally and completely smashed."

"Not true," I yawned, stretching out on the blanket, hands folded beneath my head. "I always get sleepy on beaches."

"Some fun you are," he murmured, scooting farther to sit beside me. At some point, our bodies adjusted and I laid my head in his lap, looking up toward the sky.

"Don't judge," I laughed quietly. "I don't see _you _skinny dipping or anything."

"It would be inappropriate, don't you think?" Will mused. "My sister's a few feet away. They have therapy sessions for this kind of thing."

"Excuses, Mr. Darcy."

He grinned, turning away to look at the water.

I smiled, watching him. It was typical of us to steal away from the party. Pretty hypocritical on my account too. I've never been one to insist upon changing people, but when I first started seeing Will a year and a half ago, I _promised _that I would make him less of a social retard (a title he's since fully accepted, by the way). And what happened instead? He made me see the great, inconvenient and beautiful thing about private moments.

"You suck," I mumbled.

Will snorted and looked down at me, surprised, "Thanks?"

"Seriously," I laughed. "I can't even be assed to get back to my own birthday party. You stole me away from my family and made me not want to go back. I used to like people before you came along."

"That's right, blame the misanthrope for all your troubles," he muttered, tracing the goose bumps on my arm.

"Misanthrope," I repeated, giggling. I didn't know why I found this so funny. It sounded familiar. I reached upward with a hand, brushing something off of his collar. He looked down at me and cupped my cheek with his hand.

"I have a question," I said.

"Shoot."

"A year ago…"

"Yeah?"

I didn't know why I was blushing. Will teased me about. I laughed and shook my head, "I don't know. I was just thinking about it. I remember when I started feeling different about _you_. It was after Rosings. And I guess I was just wondering …when did…"

"When did _I_?" Will finished thoughtfully. I nodded. He looked up and watched the water in thought, rubbing the back of his neck. I had the feeling he was about to answer. He looked down and opened his mouth when a deep, guttural sound of disgust interrupted us.

Rich was looming near condescendingly, Georgy by his side, arms crossed tightly over her chest. I grinned up at how silly he looked, his dark hair (in need of a trim) windblown. Georgy was smirking.

"Just as I suspected," Rich sighed, drawing himself up. "He's converted her into a hermit, Georgy. Nothing can be done in this case. Diagnosis over. We need to buy them a DVD player to complete the metamorphosis."

"_Funny_," Will rolled his eyes.

"Lizzy, your sister's looking for you," Georgy smiled, kicking some sand absently.

"Which one?" I murmured sleepily.

"The one you shared a womb with," Rich interjected.

"Oh, _that _one?" I laughed, propping myself up on an elbow. "Last I checked she was dancing with Charlie."

"Are we talking about the same Bingley?" Rich asked shrewdly. "Charles Bingley is asleep by the dessert table. On three chairs. Jane's dancing with _conscious _people now, like me. I think I deserve it, I've commuted the farthest to be here."

"Charlie's always been a lightweight," Will said distastefully. "And you live in New _York _now, Rich. You can't play that card."

"Still," Rich sighed, looking out toward the night sky.

Georgy suddenly seized his arm with excitement, blue eyes that matched her brother's wide and devious, "Oh, _Rich! _Let's go draw stuff on his face. I have Sharpies."

Rich's grin grew wide. He slung an arm around his cousin and pulled her close, sighing lovingly, "Lord. She's a child after my own heart. Race you."

"I'm not going to _race _you," she rolled her eyes, black hair whipping against her face with the breeze. She brushed her bangs back impatiently. "What am I, five?"

His shoulders slumped. Within a moment, Georgy sprang to her feet and sprinted back towards the tented reception, laughing. He muttered under his breath and ran after her, and Will and I watched as they ascended the hill. She tripped him and Rich face planted into the sand.

I started laughing, sitting up. I brushed some sand from my dress and got up, searching around for flip flops. Will looked up at me, disappointed, "What? You're going _back_? It's been five minutes."

"Sorry, Gramps. There are still some dances that still need wrecking. You don't turn twenty one every day."

Will rolled his eyes and then looked up at me, "_Gramps? _Seriously."

I grinned at him and ruffled his hair, "Big bad law student going to get me for that one?"

"How _old _are you?"

"Come on," I laughed, taking his hand and wrenching him up to his feet. He grumbled something under his breath but then sobered, and we made our way back to the party, sticking out in all its bright, white opulence in the middle of the shore.

Leave it up to Charlotte to throw Jane and I some big beachside shindig, tented and dimly light and beautiful, and not even show her face. I didn't really blame her. Half of not showing up she blamed on student teaching. The other half was Rich. Because let's face it, when you're on and off again dating, awkwardness tends to result.

Yeah. Charlotte and Rich. Crazy, right? They're actually kind of perfect for each other. In the dysfunctional, crazy, _I-adore-you-now _and _I-can't-fucking-stand-you-today _sense. Give them time. They'll probably have five kids. Not really. Well, maybe. Who am I to judge?

"There you are!" Mom flitted over to my side, tossing her hair. She had gotten extensions recently; I didn't really know what possessed her to. Will gave me a look that distinctly says, _Grin and bear it_, and I sighed, smirking.

"Stealing one of the birthday girls away, are we?" she scolded Will, yanking me into a hug. I laughed and kissed her cheek. Mom actually adores Will. It's really weird. _Adores _him. She's offered to do his laundry before.

We live two hours away.

"No, Mrs. Bennet," Will said patiently.

Dad's pretty friendly too. In a way, I think he respects Will. He never says it, but it's a way he looks at him. He trusts him. There's a layer of understanding there.

Charlie, on the other hand? _No_. I'm not sure why. It's hysterical though. If you ever want to see the great Charles Bingley II get restless and a little purple faced, you pluck him right in front of John Bennet. Then again, I'm half convinced Dad just wants to see if he can make a millionaire piss himself.

I spotted Dad all the way at the table, cluttered with long emptied plates. He was talking with Marin, whose shock of auburn pink hair had gone tame into a lovely, pulled back chestnut. She kept slapping his hand half heartedly, probably because he was lurching for a rib eye. Heart healthy diets reigned supreme in the Bennet household. Well, unless Mom had a fat day. Or Lydia was PMSing. Or there was a discount on ice cream at Giant.

The twins were inconspicuously absent, but honestly, none of us minded all that much. We had finally gotten them separated, which might have been bad or good, depending on the outcome. Kit would be starting her first year at Boston U and Lydia would commute to Temple, which seemed reasonable enough. We wanted to keep her home for the first year; no telling what mischief that girl could do when she's by herself.

And Marin? Our studious little Marin got herself into George Washington, sophomore year now. At the time, she was visiting on summer holiday. She would in the future too. No word on whether she's learned to pry herself out of a book yet, but I'll let you know. We half suspect she's going to become a Congresswoman. Or something.

I watched from a distance as Jane came to stand behind her, braiding her hair absently. She caught my eye from across the space and grinned at me, calling me over.

"I'll be right back," I promised, hand slipping out of Will's. He stared at me, wide eyed and less than thrilled at the prospect of being left with my mother, who wouldn't stop talking about hors d'ourves. I laughed and stood up quickly on my tiptoes, kissing his cheek, "_Grin and bear it_." He narrowed his eyes.

Jane wrapped me in a bear hug when I got to her, smoothing my hair out of my face, "You look so pretty tonight, Lizzy. Glad we wrestled you into a dress? You were dead against this party."

"Kinda, yeah," I admitted, shrugging.

Dad looked up to where I had run from, snorting, "That poor boy looks like he's suffering from an aneurysm."

I glanced across the way at Will, who was nodding tersely at my mother, his hands clasped patiently in front of him. Marin snorted dryly.

"I still can't get over you two," Jane murmured.

"It's been a _year_," I laughed. "More, even."

"Nuh-uh," she put her hands on her hips defiantly. "Not really. What about those two weeks late last year when you wouldn't let him into the apartment? And you're not even counting Will's time at Lafayette. It's been scattered months, at most."

"You wouldn't let him into the _apartment_?" Dad scoffed, "Lizzy!"

"He insulted Philadelphia sports teams, Dad. Sixers I can deal with. But the Flyers? Come on now."

"Point taken. Marty Biron is not to be trifled with."

"Still," Jane sighed.

You couldn't really blame her though. Jane's not one to openly swear, but the first time I sat her down at the stoop of the townhouse, took her hand gingerly in mine and admitted what was going on between me and Will Darcy, she practically screamed, "Are you fucking _kidding _me?" Our neighbors didn't appreciate it all that much.

It might have not been a good time either, because she had recently discovered Will's part in separating her and Charlie. But she had forgiven him ages ago. In my own words, he was guided by, "severely fucked up good intentions and ass biting ego". It was universally accepted fact at this point.

We went through a bit of a spat actually, because Jane was pissed that I hadn't told her everything after Rosings -- but it's not like she had been _that _willing to listen anyway, what with her manic eagerness to turn over a new leaf.

See, her reaction was funny though. At first Jane had been shocked, but she had grudgingly admitted that, had she not turned a blind eye, she might have seen the signs earlier.

"Seriously?" I had laughed, two days after Will and I had gotten together and I had told her everything. "You knew? _I_ didn't."

"I didn't know _you _felt anything for him," she had muttered back. "I must have missed something because you were pretty settled in hating his guts. But _Will_? That boy's probably been smitten with you since Charlie's party. You need to be more observant about how people look at you, Lizzy. He wouldn't stop staring."

"I thought that was glaring."

"Well, he's not that good at flirting, is he?"

I smiled, glancing at Jane now. She was watching Will and Mom curiously, her arms crossed over her chest. I shoved at her lightly and she blinked up at me, startled, "What is it?"

"Nothing," I grinned. "Charlie still passed out?"

Jane looked alarmed, "Sorry?"

"Rich told me he drank too much."

"Rich is a pathological liar. Charlie's right over there," Jane raised an eyebrow, pointing behind her. Marin and I craned our necks. Charlie was dancing with Brenda Baker, my old co worker, his red hair mussed and standing up at weird angles.

"I hate Rich Fitzwilliam," I sighed.

"_Ooh_," she made a face. "I promised him a dance. Should I take it back?"

I waved a hand, "He's harmless. I think."

Will was making his way back to us, as Mom had presently latched herself onto Georgy, who was way too nice to turn her down.

"Your mother is," Will tugged at his collar, locked eyes with my father and cleared his throat, "a fascinating woman."

"Watch it," Dad warned. Jane grinned and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Why did I get the feeling that you all were watching me this whole time?" Will asked, straightening his tie. He looked at me questioningly.

"Because we were," Marin deadpanned. "Sportscaster commentary, actually."

"Thank you, Marin."

"You're welcome." She suddenly gasped, taking Dad's hand, "Oh, I _love _this song!"

Billy Idol's "Dancin' With Myself" was just starting out, and she was hell bent on dragging him into a dance. Dad made a pained face, "Heart trouble, sorry honey."

"That's bullshit," I laughed. "You've been eyeing steak all evening. And we took you bowling last week. You've got it in you."

"Yeah, but," Dad sighed, resting his elbows on his knees, "your _mother _will see me and then _she'll _expect a dance, and then it's just one great big mess after that. It ends with me collapsing, if you didn't realize. If they play Heart next, I'm a lost man."

"We could always get you a walker," Will suggested pleasantly.

Dad narrowed his eyes at him and pointed, "Darcy, I'm starting not to like you." At that, he rose and led Marin to the dance floor.

"It got him up, didn't it?" Will murmured into my ear. I laughed and he grinned, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

After awhile, Charlie showed up, bright eyed and energetic, insisting upon a dance with Jane. And with a smile and an enduring eye roll, she left us. I watched them for a couple of minutes, as Charlie bent low to whisper something to Jane and she pulled back, laughing so hard that she had to dab at her eyes. He grinned and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I smiled.

"I have to show you something," Will's voice brought me back, just by my ear. I turned into him.

"Stealing me away again?" I mumbled. "It better be to an arcade. I still want to kick your ass at air hockey. Again."

Will sighed, "Okay, you got _way _too competitive at Simon Hurst's birthday party a year ago. And we supposed to be the well behaved, American chaperones. You stole the punch _and _the party favors."

"They had _ring pops_, Will. Do you _realize _how good those are?"

He snorted, "_Anyway_. No arcades, sorry. But I do have a birthday present."

"I told you I didn't want anything."

"Yeah but, who the hell ever listens to that?" he suggested.

"Not you," I muttered.

"Not me," he agreed, taking my hand. "Come on."

We disappeared behind the tent and walked the five minutes back to the parking lot, Will leading me patiently by the hand like I was some five year old who might snatch away from him at any given moment. It might have been ridiculous if I hadn't, y'know, actually _done _that before. Sometimes I can't help pissing him off. It's worth it for the make up that follows.

I grinned, following him lightly. He was excited, I could tell, but he was trying not to make eye contact. I watched his profile, smirking. God, I loved him when he smiled.

I cocked my head. You couldn't really see it now, but Will had actually had a cut near his lip up until a month ago. That had cleaned up nicely. See, _that_? That was a direct result of finally locating George Wickham. I guess that should be afforded some light for a moment.

It was actually really funny when it happened. We had stopped looking for Wickham for his long overdue ass kicking (or murdering). But as Andy Warhol once said, "As soon as you stop looking for something, you get it." Or maybe it was _wanting_… either way.

Wickham hadn't even left Philadelphia. He was waiting tables and pulling several double shifts across Center City. Georgy and I had dragged Will to his first broadway show at Forrest Theatre, seeking an early dinner afterwards.

And things were going great, really. Until Wickham dropped by our table to take our order, froze in shock, and had a fist collide with the side of his face before he could even flinch.

Actually, that first one was Georgy's.

But then Will lunged himself and Wickham slammed him into the table and fists were thrown and Will got his nose bloodied and Wickham got a kidney punch and a split lip and let's just say we've been um, blacklisted from Budakkan. Which kind of sucks because they have _amazing _tempura. Still, we're lucky enough that they didn't press charges.

Georgy fractured her wrist, but she thought it was totally worth it. The cab ride afterwards was the best. Mainly because Will's head was in my lap and he was counting fingers and I had the wonderful opportunity of cramming toilet paper up each nostril to stop the blood flow. I think I realized then how much I liked taking care of him, as ridiculous of a situation it was at the time.

"Will you keep _up_?" his voice snapped me back to reality, and he pulled me closer, grinning. His car was the last in the lot, and at the last minute, excitement made his hand slip from mine. Will wrenched open the car door and I caught up, peering in skeptically.

"Hold up," he slid in front of me, shielding the inside of the car from view. Will sighed, "Okay so, fine, I got you a new pet."

I wrinkled my nose, "Will, you suck at that. Remember Jon Bon Gerbil? Just, _no_."

"It's not that."

"I can't handle goldfish anymore."

"I didn't get you a goldfish."

"Or did you adopt a kid from Kenya?" I asked shrewdly, "Because I can't pull off the Angelina Jolie thing."

Will passed a hand over his eyes and sighed, "Remember Sam Hutton?"

"You bought me Sam Hutton?"

"_Sam Hutton_, inebriated as he may seem, is actually the son of a dog breeder. A lab dog breeder."

My mouth opened and closed. "But," I grabbed his collar, smiling excitedly, "but you _told _me when we bought that apartment three months ago that if we ever got a dog you would hang yourself by your shoelaces because it would shit on _everything_."

"Yeah, but then I saw that movie _Marley & Me_--" I shoved him and Will laughed, "Just kidding. Look _inside_, will you? God."

Laughing, I bent low and poked my head inside the doorway. I followed a leash, wound around the driver's seat to the back, where a chocolate lab puppy lay sleeping on the backseat, eyes slowly opening. He suddenly raised his head, tail whipping back and forth.

I screamed, scrambling inside. Will winced.

"I'm naming him Atticus!"

"Name him whatever you want."

"Shnookiebutterbums."

"Do you _want _the dog to kill himself?"

I laughed as the puppy squirmed in my arms, jittery and excited, reaching up to lick my face. "He's _adorable_," I smiled, scratching behind his ears. "Dude, I feel like a little girl who finally got that tricycle she wanted when she was three, but now she's thirty so it's not really relevant anymore."

"Yeah, but you're in your twenties, and this isn't a tricycle."

"I know," I grinned, reaching up to kiss Will's cheek. "Thank you."

"Good present?" he smiled.

"_Great _present. Thank Sam Hutton for me," I said. I craned low then, wrinkling my nose at the backseat. "Oh, and um, get a plastic bag from the party when you get the chance."

"Why?"

"Atticus left you a present back there."

"Shit."

"Plenty of it," I patted his shoulder, "back there, to the right."

When we returned to the party (several strings of expletives later), my sisters harbored the puppy and Mom began fussing so much that we rather debated her getting her a little chow or something to preoccupy herself when all of her daughters were finally all college bound by the end of the summer. It would do her 'nerves' some good to focus all her attention on a different species.

In the meantime, I bullied Will into a final dance while a pretty girl up front covered "Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday, her deep voice filling the air. I watched him, smiling, searching his face.

He was really calm that evening, and I was happy. He had been so stressed from classes lately that it had taken some coaxing just to wrestle him to the Jersey shore that weekend.

"Hey," Will murmured, and I looked up. "I have an answer to your question."

"Which one?"

"That one about when I realized how I felt about you."

"Was _that _the question?" I grinned, teasing.

He chewed on the inside of his mouth in thought, "The answer is that I don't know. That's the thing, I _never _know. By the time I realized I was felt something for you, hell, I was probably in love with you already."

"Aww."

"You're teasing me."

I frowned, "Wait, but that day you came over with Charlie, when he made up with Jane…"

"What about it?" Will asked, his blue eyes searching mine.

"Well, you didn't _say _anything. You didn't say that you still loved me; I had no idea."

Will's eyebrows rose. He actually laughed, "Lizzy, wow. _Wow_. What does a man have to do? Scream it from the rooftops?"

"You're an ass."

"I wrote it in that book. _And _I kissed you. _And _I took you out. Come on."

"Yeah, but a girl would appreciate a little directness."

"Nothing pleases you," he shook his head incredulously. "I didn't want to be that blunt. What if I scared you off? I was pretty good at that the first time around."

"Yeah," I muttered, wincing a little.

"Either way," Will smiled ironically, "_you _didn't exactly jump right out in say it either."

"I did the next day."

"But you made me wait a whole _day_."

"I was _freaked out_," I rolled my eyes. "I didn't know if you still felt the way you had at Rosings."

"I _kissed _you that evening!"

"I thought it was spur-of-the-moment!"

"Dear God," Will groaned, stopping in the middle of the dance floor. He rubbed his face wearily, "We really suck at communicating. Or at least, _you _suck at taking really obvious hints."

"I can't believe you're insulting me," I glared at him. "It's my birthday."

"I got you a _dog_, didn't I?" Will teased. "It defecated all over the backseat of the sedan, if you didn't notice. I think I deserve at least one jab for that."

I rolled my eyes and he smiled, pulling me back until he could link his arms around my waist again.

"By the way," Will murmured into my ear, "I don't think you checked out the mail before we left Philly."

"Nope," I said sleepily. It didn't make sense to. We would be spending the end of summer at Pemberley anyway. I had spent the last week packing. I grinned, thinking of Bea. She always made a fuss with meals. She would be calling me three days in advance to find out what I wanted for dinner.

"Then you didn't notice the letter," Will prompted.

"What letter? Are you evicting me?" I teased.

A slow smile spread on his face.

"Your short stories got accepted by Random House. Well, four of them. They really liked that one about the old woman by the bar, wearing her late daughter's jewelry and playing matchmaker for all the regulars--"

I think I screamed. Or pulled an Atticus. Either way, I _definitely _stopped dancing. "_What?_"

"I _still _think you should keep working on that novel, because I've been reading through some drafts, and I know you have all these internships in line for these papers, especially the Courier, but--"

I cut him off, grinned and grabbed both sides of his face, pressing my lips against his. He laughed. Then I shoved him.

"What the _hell_?" Will started.

"You waited _all night _to tell me that?"

"Pretty much."

"Why?" I demanded roughly.

"You know," he mused, looking upward, "I'm not really sure. Maybe I really am an asshole."

"_I_ wouldn't put it past you," Rich suddenly said, dipping into our little bubble, dancing with Jane. She sent me an apologetic glance and laughed, and Will glared at his cousin.

I opened my mouth, eager to blurt my news to her, sheer joy running through my veins. I was downright giddy. Will cast me a quiet smile, and then I decided against it. For some reason, I felt content with just the two of us knowing for now. I wanted to bask in this little slot of golden secrecy. It was ironic, but it seemed strangely fitting. I rested my hand against his cheek and smiled, feeling light.

"You know, we're breaking out the cake soon," Jane hinted at, wincing. "Prepare to be sung to."

"I will if you will, Janey," I grinned at her, taking her hand quickly. "Just give me one more dance." She smiled, and Rich spun her regally towards Georgy and a guy friend of Jane's, dancing close to the band.

"Charlie's going to be jealous," Will muttered.

"You're _not _an asshole."

"Pardon?" he asked, bending closer as if he didn't hear me.

"You're not an asshole," I repeated, laughing. "You're just severely misunderstood."

"Like a teenaged girl," Will elaborated, grimacing.

"Kind of," I smiled. "You're learning."

He laughed, and it finally hit me just how _happy _he was tonight. He spun me around once, and my skirt flared around me like a bell, the hem brushing delicately against my knees. I laughed, and Will pulled me back close, his breath tickling my ear.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I know."

"No, like, a lot. A _ridiculous _amount, actually."

"I know." It filled the room. I smiled. "I love you too."

He bent down and cradled my cheek with his hand, brushing his lips against mine. He kissed me so tenderly that I felt a little lightheaded for a moment. My hands traveled up his chest and he pulled apart slightly, tucking a wisp of my hair behind an ear. "Hey, Lizzy?" Will asked softly.

"Yeah?" I said, slightly breathless.

"Let's go get some cake."

I grinned up at him and laced my hand in his. "Okay."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I take ridiculous satisfaction in ticking this story off as completed. Really.

That's it! I hope you enjoyed, I really do. I can't thank you guys enough for the ridiculous support behind this story, the reviews, the PMs, the number of favorites and story alerts. It's just been fantastic. Thank you! It's been so fun. I've gotten really attached.

Keep an eye out for more modernizations in the future, because I have a feeling that I'm not through yet. :)


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